


Getting the Band Together

by mynameisnoneya



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Burns, Car Accidents, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Love, Older Man/Younger Woman, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Past Drug Addiction, Past Drug Use, Rock Stars, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-16
Updated: 2018-06-11
Packaged: 2018-11-01 04:13:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 38,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10914111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mynameisnoneya/pseuds/mynameisnoneya
Summary: Sansa Stark works for Golden Lion Records, a record label founded by Jaime Lannister, former front man for Kingslayer, one of the hottest, most acclaimed hard rock bands of the mid-1990s.  As the 20th anniversary of Kingslayer's first album approaches, Jaime, along with former bassist, Jorah Mormont, and drummer, Bronn Flynn, are trying to pull together a reunion tour and album.  However, Sandor Clegane, the band's lead guitarist, went off the grid after a horrific car accident as Kingslayer was about to disband, and he refuses to rejoin his former bandmates.  Volunteering to track down Sandor and to convince him to come back with her to Westeros, Sansa, who is a life-long fangirl of Kingslayer and the guitar legend, embarks on a life-altering journey when she finally meets the object of her school-girl fantasies.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story will explore the instant chemistry between an aging rock star and a young woman who has had a crush on him since she was in her tweens. In this story, Sansa will be around 25, and Sandor will be in his early 40s. If an age difference as such bothers you, then please don't read. Also, if you don't subscribe to the notion that two people can fall in love at first sight, then you also probably won't like this saga, either.
> 
> If you're still hanging around, then I assume you're ready to buckle up and join me as Sansa Stark begins her journey to try and locate the scarred, heavy drinking guitar god, Sandor Clegane.
> 
> Please note that I made sure to tag any and all characters that appear in this work, whether they have a speaking role or not. 
> 
> General disclaimer: GoT characters and quotes belong to GRMM - I own nor claim nothing!
> 
> If you enjoyed this work, please let me know by leaving comments and kudos!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa is running late for her focus meeting with her employers as they try to figure out how to entice Sandor into rejoining Kingslayer for a reunion album and world tour.

“Damn it!” Sansa yelled, the piping hot coffee running a steamy trail down the valley of her breasts.  Just as she had stepped outside her office on route to the focus meeting about to begin in the conference room, Podrick, the office intern, had unceremoniously ran right into her, spilling an unfortunately extra large and painfully hot latte down the front of her designer-label white blouse and charcoal pencil skirt.  Her once color-coded and superiorly cross-referenced files, full of umpteen hours of research that had taken weeks to assemble, now lay in a haphazard pile on the hallway floor.

“Oh, shit, Sansa, I’m so sorry!” Podrick squeaked, reaching out with a handful of flimsy paper napkins that had been stuffed in his pants pocket in a feeble attempt to wipe away the rather hideous coffee stain bleeding across the front of her blouse.

“Thank you, but _no!_ ” Sansa growled in return, swatting Podrick’s hand away like a toddler who was trying to fish out a treat from the cookie jar.

“I’m really, _really_ sorry,” he nervously continued, dropping to his knees, quickly picking up the mess of papers on the floor, “I shouldn’t have been running.  It’s just that Mrs. Baratheon gets _so_ angry if I’m even a few minutes late…”

Sansa took a deep breath.  _He’s a klutz, but he’s a good guy.  Don’t be a bitch!_ She knew that Podrick, who was a virtuoso when it came to being clumsy, had only been hired at Golden Lion Records because Tyrion Lannister, co-owner of the company, had owed Podrick’s family a favor, and as everyone at the company knows, “a Lannister always pays his debts.”  Even though Podrick was supposed to be Tyrion’s assistant, Tyrion’s older sister, Cersei, thoroughly enjoyed torturing the poor kid for sport and using him as her personal valet.

“It’s fine,” Sansa smiled weakly as she took the disorganized stack of files from him, “We all make mistakes, yeah?  Now go – run, before Cersei smells blood in the water!”

Podrick’s eyes grew wide with terror, “I’d better get back down to Hotpie’s and pick up another latte – later, Sansa!” he called out as he ran down the hallway, taking the door leading to the stairs.

Surveying the damage done to her expensive clothing as well as to her month-long research project, Sansa felt like she just might cry.  _Well, here goes nothing_ , she thought as she braced herself and marched down the hallway to the conference room.

When she opened the door, the rest of the “Small Council,” as Tyrion playfully called the group, were already seated around the massive maple conference table.  She quickly glanced at the clock on the wall, realizing that she was running 6 minutes late.

“Well, well, Ms. Stark, how good of you to finally join us,” spat Cersei Baratheon, Tyrion’s widowed older sister, her mouth molded into a wicked grin, “And here I was thinking that perhaps you were too busy looking for new shoes online to join us for the meeting.”

Sansa gritted her teeth, putting on her best _eat-shit-and-die_ face, “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Baratheon, I literally ran into Podrick and –“

“Don’t worry, Sansa, darling,” purred Jaime Lannister, the other co-owner of Golden Lion Records as well as Cersei’s twin brother, waving his hand in the air, “Just go ahead and take a seat.  We’ve just started, so you haven’t missed a thing.  Now, ladies and gentlemen, where were we?”

Sitting in the empty chair at the far-end of the table beside her coworker, best friend, and former college roommate, Margaery Tyrell, Sansa desperately tried to arrange all of her files in their original order.  Margaery, a fun-loving free-spirit who never truly took anything too seriously, had to put her hand over her mouth to keep herself from giggling out loud when she saw Sansa’s stained blouse.  Sansa, trying not to smirk too noticeably, silently kicked Margaery’s leg underneath the table, which only increased Margaery’s need to laugh.

The “Small Council” promptly forgot about Sansa, since her position as the company’s Consumer Researcher basically meant her opinion only mattered to the people in charge when it came to statistics, surveys, and market analysis.  The debate on today’s menu centered on how the record label would be able to persuade the final of the original four members of Kingslayer, a highly commercially successful and critically-acclaimed hard rock band, to reunite for a 20th anniversary world tour and new CD.

Sansa’s mind quickly tuned out the heated discussion, allowing her thoughts to wander.  Sansa had become quite an expert on Kingslayer, thanks in part to the amount of research she had conducted on the band’s history and its members over the last few weeks.  It also didn’t hurt that she had been a die-fan of the hard rock band since they released their first album while she was barely old enough to go to school.  _Has it been that long?_ Her father, Ned, had always been a huge music fan, and he exposed his five children to all sorts of genres, his particular favorite being hard rock. 

Sansa wondered if _anyone_ would ever be able to convince the band’s former lead guitar player to agree to such an undertaking as this.

Conveniently, Jaime just so happened to be the former lead singer and rhythm guitar player _._ Bored with the debate in progress, Sansa turned her attention to one of the research files she had assembled on Jaime.  _Mercy, he was fine!_ She did not need to surf the internet to discover that Jaime was a gorgeous man and a serial flirt.

Her mind drifted, remembering just how enamored she had been with Jaime when she had started at the company two years ago as a fresh college grad with a dual major in Music and Business.  He had constantly fawned over her during her first month on the job, even going so far as to personally bring her coffee several times a week.  Of course, all it took was a few stern looks from his wife, Brienne, the company’s head of security, to squelch his rather flattering and swoon-worthy devotion.  _Thank God!_   Sansa smirked, _I may have ended up doing something I would’ve totally regretted with that one!_

Back in the band’s glory days, Jaime had sported a perfectly coiffed mane of feathered, golden chin-length locks which framed his chiseled face and jade-green eyes.  With his muscular physique and tall frame, Jaime, who looked like the living embodiment of some otherworldly god, had earned himself quite the reputation as a lothario while in the band.  _Not much has changed there,_ Sansa mused to herself.

After the band broke up, he attempted an unsuccessful solo career before starting his own record label with his twin sister, Cersei, and their younger brother, Tyrion.  Now entering his 40’s, Jaime was just as handsome as he had always been, but he had traded in the long hair for a short, closely cropped style that still somehow made him look like more like a fashion model than a former rock star.

Sansa’s admiration of Jaime’s physical gifts was interrupted briefly when Petyr Baelish, the company’s Entertainment Lawyer and resident pervert, suggested that they just move forward with the reunion tour by simply auditioning a replacement for the former lead guitar player.  Sansa and Margaery shot each other a knowing look.  _What a moron!_ Sansa mused, rolling her eyes at Petyr’s suggestion.

No one liked Petyr.  In fact, Sansa was quite certain that if Petyr mysteriously disappeared, not one person at Golden Lion Records would bother to report it.  Cersei, whom everyone on staff knew despised Petyr but were not quite sure why, reminded him that Jaime’s former bandmate was a necessary evil to the success of the reunion.  She also followed with a curt reminder that perhaps Petyr should keep his focus on the legalities behind their upcoming plans and less on how they actually got there.  Sansa, who always hated being on the receiving end of Cersei’s cruelties, could not help but enjoy watching Cersei give it to Petyr.

Warned by Margaery to stay clear of the slimy, handsy middle-aged attorney, Sansa was only on the job three days when Petyr had corned her in her office when she had stayed late to finish researching the company’s newest client.  Sansa had tried every polite way she knew to slip around Petyr as he stood hovering over her, pinning her between her desk and the wall.  Just as she was about to yell for help, Tyrion had appeared in her doorway.  Thankfully, Petyr stood down when Tyrion told him that she was driving him home because his wife, Shae, had left earlier and had accidentally taken his car keys with her.

True to his word, Tyrion grabbed a ride home with Sansa, apologizing profusely that she had been accosted by “Littlefinger,” a nickname Tyrion had bestowed upon Petyr years ago.  _Obviously, a slam on his manhood, no doubt,_ Sansa snickered.  On the way, Tyrion had indirectly warned her that Petyr liked to mistreat younger women and that in the future, she should make sure that she did not stay alone in the building.  Like, ever.  _What the hell kind of place am I working in?_  Sansa remembered thinking that night.  Tyrion, who had an uncanny ability to read people and their thoughts, also told her that the only reason Petyr was still on the payroll was because he had been the one to squash a rather explicit and embarrassing sex tape that had emerged in a blackmail attempt before it went public, starring none other than Jaime and a woman other than his wife whom Tyrion preferred not to name.

Quickly looking around the conference room to pretend like she was paying attention, Sansa caught Petyr staring at her.  Against her will, she visibly shivered, causing the corners of his mouth to turn upward into a lascivious grin.  _Shit, don’t make eye contact!_

Sansa buried her attention into her research files on the other band members who had already agreed to the reunion gig as the Small Council continued to debate the issue.

The first former Kingslayer band member to jump on the bandwagon had been Bronn Flynn, the band’s drummer who became just as famous for his wild, womanizing ways and hard-partying as much as his on-stage antics during their ten years of commercial success.  Not classically handsome like Jaime, Bronn was rugged, tough, and a first-class smart ass.  During the band’s last years of touring, though, his drug use escalated.  Bronn eventually sought refuge in a religious cult out west, spending the next 8 years there and dropping out of the public eye.  Finally escaping the cult and returning to the real world, Bronn, thankfully now drug-free and healthier than ever, parlayed his success with Kingslayer into several reality television shows, his latest gig being a judge on the latest rock-star-wannabe show on network television.

Next to sign up for the Kingslayer reunion was Jorah Mormont, the band’s former bass player and back-up vocalist.  Jorah, a classically trained musician, was a multi-instrumentalist who played the piano, violin, cello, guitar, and bass.  Jorah had been one of the band’s primary songwriters and musical arrangers, often fusing elements from other genres into their music, giving Kingslayer a truly unique sound.  A serious, introspective man, Jorah was labeled “the quiet one” by the press.  Preferring the solace of the studio over the partying and the touring, Jorah found success after Kingslayer disbanded as a studio musician and producer, often collaborating with Jaime’s record label to help out when needed on various projects.  Now entering middle-age just like Jaime and Bronn, Jorah was still as fit and handsome as ever, even if his once lush, long blond hair had been traded in for a receding hairline.

Suddenly, Sansa’s ears perked up when she heard Tyrion ask, “Come now, dear sister, is that the best idea that you can offer?  We’ll simply throw more money at Clegane so then he’ll come running back to us like we’re calling a dog?  Since when did money ever matter to him, pray tell?” 

Darting her eyes over to Cersei, Sansa could tell by the way her thick brows were knitted together that Cersei would be viciously stabbing her Tyrion voodoo doll when she got back to her office.  If she had one, that is.

Thankfully, Cersei did not notice Sansa’s grin since she was too busy hurling not-so-well-disguised insults at Tyrion about his height, mostly because he was a dwarf and because she never seemed to tire of that gag.

“You’re a clever man, but you’re not half as clever as you think you are,” Cersei hissed.

“Still makes me more clever than you,” Tyrion grinned as he raised his water glass to take a sip.

“Alright, alright, you two, that’s enough,” Jaime countered with a huff, interrupting the sibling rivalry that was now in full swing.  Visibly flustered, he asked, “Does anyone _else_ have an idea as to how we can convince Sandor to come back to us?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Rock and roll is my religion." - Ozzy Osbourne


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa tries to focus during the Small Council's discussion about how to convince Sandor to rejoin Kingslayer for the reunion tour. Lost in her thoughts, she is brought back to reality when Tyrion asks Sansa if she has any input to offer. And when Cersei sharpens her metaphorical claws, digging them deeply into the young redhead, Sansa steps outside her comfort zone, boldly vowing to bring back Sandor all by herself - no matter what it takes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Cersei, for being bitchy as always. Otherwise, Sansa might not have agreed to track down Sandor. Go get your man, girlfriend!

The room fell silent.

Hoping to remain under the radar, Sansa averted her eyes, glancing down at the jumbled stack of research files that she had brought with her today to the Small Council.  While pretending to listen to Petyr and Cersei as they resumed their catfight, Sansa shuffled the pile, quickly scanning the room before opening the file pertaining to Sandor.  Even as Jaime tried to shush Cersei’s blatant insults that she was hurling at a highly-amused Petyr, Sansa tuned them out as she lost herself in an old publicity photo that she had located on the internet.

Sandor was absurdly tall, sporting a full, dark beard, shoulder-length black hair, and piercing gray eyes.  The photo had been snapped during one of their concerts while on their world tour after the release of their second album.  His form-fitting leather pants left little to the imagination, and his skin-tight, black short sleeve t-shirt hugged his massive frame like it had been painted on his muscular body.  Sandor’s mouth was wide open while he sang, his hair a sweaty mess of dark waves that covered half of his face.  Damn her if the man didn’t look like he was making love to his guitar by the way he had it snugly nestled against his crotch.

_Get a grip, Sansa, reign it in!  The guy is almost old enough to be your father.  Seriously, like he’d ever be interested in you anyway._

This wasn’t the first time that Sansa had fantasized about Sandor Clegane.  Her older brother, Robb, and their cousin, Jon, had been huge Kingslayer fans ( _still are, too)_ while they were kids, thanks to their father’s influence.  Between the two of them and their neighbor and childhood friend, Theon, the young boys constantly listened to Kingslayer’s music and dreamed of becoming rock stars themselves, just like their idols.  Countless hours were spent after school with Jon playing a mean air guitar, matching Sandor’s riffs note for note, Robb mimicking Jorah on bass, and Theon pretending to play drums like Bronn.  Always in need of a lead singer, Sansa would beg to be included in their “band,” and when she finally won them over and talked them into letting her hang out with them one afternoon, they were blown away at how accurate her display of Jaime’s mannerisms and on-stage antics were.  Sansa could have easily been the redheaded, female stand-in vocalist for Kingslayer should they ever need a replacement.

Thinking about her family made Sansa’s mind wander to how she had obtained her position at Golden Lion Records in the first place.  Even though Sansa had no real work experience in the music industry upon graduation, she was determined to land a job with Jaime Lannister’s record company.  During her interview with Tyrion and Jaime, on a whim she confessed how she used to imitate Jaime so well that folks thought it was scary.  Not able to resist a chance to needle his handsome older brother, Tyrion dared Sansa to demonstrate for them her impersonation of Jaime.  It was Sansa’s epic impromptu imitation that had won her a job offer from Tyrion right on the spot.  The look of shock on Jaime’s stunned face when she belted out her rendition of “The Rains of Castamere,” posturing and strutting about Tyrion’s office as if she were actually channeling Jaime, was priceless. 

And although she adored Jaime Lannister and considered herself something of an expert on Kingslayer, Sansa’s school-girl heart didn’t belong to the beautiful, blond lead singer.  No, her ultimate fantasy focused solely on one huge, extremely talented guitarist.  While most of the girls her age at Winterfell Middle School swooned over all of the latest hairless and talentless boy bands, Sansa had it _bad_ for Sandor Clegane.  He had been built more like a linebacker, not a rock star.  He was furry, foul-mouthed, and moody.  A notoriously heavy drinker, the man was also an extraordinarily gifted guitar player likened to the greats such as Clapton, Page, and Hendrix.  Between his pissy attitude and his proclivity to wear leather, Sandor reeked of dirty talk and rough sex. 

Yup, in Sansa’s world, Sandor possessed all of the qualities that any proper, well-bred young lady from a wealthy and socially connected family might want in a potential lust-filled, middle school girl daydream.  Her hands definitely had found their way down into her panties on numerous nights while fantasizing about how magnificent it would feel to have Sandor’s very large and very skillful hands working her over like he worked his vintage ’59 Les Paul Standard.

 _You got that right,_ Sansa thought lustfully as she traced her fingers over Sandor’s photograph that was paperclipped to the file folder.  Now in her mid-20s, Sansa still could get seriously turned on just listening to Sandor’s guitar solos or watching him banter with his bandmates during an old press interview.  _Honestly, you really need to get a boyfriend,_ Sansa chided herself.

While enjoying her trip down memory lane, Sansa vaguely heard Tyrion’s voice off in the distance as he asked her a question, but she was so deep into her thoughts that she did not hear his actual words.  Yeah, she really needed to focus more in these focus groups.

“Sorry, I…um, what did you say, Mr. Lannister?” she muttered, quickly realizing that all eyes were focused on her now.  Her pale cheeks flushed a deep crimson with the embarrassment at having been caught daydreaming, especially about the topic of said daydream.  Clearing her throat, she hurriedly slammed Sandor’s research file closed, but not before Margaery raised one perfectly manicured blond eyebrow in question.

Tyrion smirked as he fiddled with the pen in his small hand, “Sansa, love, ‘Mr. Lannister’ is my father.  You’ve been here almost two years.  Please, call me Tyrion.”  As Tyrion finished his statement, he shot his older sister a wickedly smug look, “Just because Cersei likes to put on airs doesn’t mean that Jaime and I do.”

“Yes, Mr. Lannister…I mean, yes, of course, Tyrion,” Sansa fumbled.  She had to bite the tip of her tongue to keep from laughing as Cersei literally growled at her younger brother’s jab.  Even Jaime had a smirk on his face at that one.

“As I was saying, Sansa,” Tyrion continued, obviously satisfied with himself at present, “I wondered if you had any thoughts to add to our uplifting discussion here this morning about how we might persuade my brother’s former bandmate to join our little circus?”

Sansa was flabbergasted.  No one had ever asked her to do anything during a meeting except present her research.  Conducting consumer surveys, tracking down information to help the marketing department promote an album, or analyzing what records were selling in which market fit her job description.  She excelled at that.  Trying to come up with a creative plan of action on the spot that would entice the elusive Sandor Clegane to return to the land of the living seemed impossible. 

“I…well…you could call him?” she squeaked.

“Fabulous idea,” Jaime nodded, “However, as we all know, Sandor is off the grid.  No phones.”

“Wait a minute,” Sansa countered, sitting up straight in her chair, “What about that cell phone number I had tracked down for you a few days ago?  Did you try it yet?”

“Ah, yes,” Tyrion added as he leaned back in his seat, drumming his fingers on the conference table, “Funny little story, that.  When I called the number yesterday, I discovered that the cell number you unearthed was in fact a telephone number to a diner in White Harbor where Clegane apparently has docked his boat.  I was able to bribe some old man who was eating in the diner and who happened to answer the public phone to get Clegane on the line.  When I put Jaime on the phone, though, Clegane told Jaime that he would rather rape a corpse before rejoining Kingslayer.”

Margaery could not help but burst out into a fit of laughter at that comment. Petyr simply huffed in total indignation at the idea.  Tyrion joined Margery in her merriment while Cersei and Jaime did not look amused.  Not.  At.  All.

“Is there anything at all that you can do right, girl?” Cersei groaned, rolling her eyes in disgust at Sansa.

Sansa, now completely flummoxed at her faux pas, desperately tried to think of a response.  She never made a mistake.  _Never._ Not once in her two years on the job had she ever given her employers misinformation, erroneous figures, or false leads.  Her research was always above-board and remarkably meticulous.  Now that she had very publicly screwed up, Sansa was certain that Cersei would manage to massage this opportunity to her advantage.  Sansa knew that Cersei wanted her head on a spike.  The fact that Sansa had managed to hold onto her job this long was nothing short of miraculous since the older woman had been trying to figure out a way to fire Sansa since the redhead had made the mistake of dating Cersei’s sadistic son, Joffrey, for a few months last year.  Those had been the longest, most frightening four months of her entire 25 years on earth.

 _For goodness sake, don’t think about that little prick right now,_ Sansa grimaced.

“I think that we should table this meeting until next week,” Petyr offered, hoping to sound knowledgeable and important, “Give the young lady a chance to dig a little deeper into Clegane’s life.  If you really want to convince him to rejoin the band, then we need to quit playing patty-cake with the man.  Stop attempting to talk to him directly.  Instead, let’s make a list of his known associates and talk to _them_.  Everyone has a price.  We just need to find out what their currency is, if you will, and they will offer Clegane up on a platter.”

“No blackmail, Littlefinger,” Tyrion warned with a scowl, “That’s not how _we_ do things.”

“You should be thankful of the things that I’m willing to do for your family,” Petyr challenged with a snarky grin, shooting a glance toward Jaime, who was now staring blankly at the conference table while unconsciously clenching and unclenching his fist.  Tyrion’s normally jovial expression turned dark.  If looks could kill, Tyrion’s icy glare would have dropped Petyr on the spot.

“I’ll find him,” Sansa blurted out without thinking it through, “I’ll track Sandor down myself.  I’ll convince him to come back here once I find him.  I can leave first thing tomorrow.” Sansa couldn’t believe what she just allowed to pour forth from her mouth.  Now a room full of perplexed people turned to stare directly at her.  Margaery especially looked dumbfounded by Sansa’s audacious proclamation.

“You?” Cersei cackled wildly, “You couldn’t even find a phone number with a team of private investigators, a $3,000 computer system and the entire internet at your disposal.  Exactly _how_ do you propose to ‘bring him back’, hmm?”

“I…I’ll talk to him,” Sansa began while thinking on her feet, her eyes dancing around the faces of the people sitting around the conference table, “I’ll explain the whole situation to him.  Sandor still has millions of fans eager to hear him play again.  I can tell him that the rest of the band wants him back.  I’ll even show him the proposed income he would earn from a reunion tour and album.”  Sansa had all of three seconds to be pleased with her response before Cersei pounced.

“Clegane isn’t going to be swayed by that load of rubbish, you stupid girl,” Cersei spat as she leaned forward, a malicious grin spreading across her face as she rested her elbows on the conference table, “Money was never important to him, and he despises any one with power or authority.  The old fool probably still fancies himself a real ‘rock and roll rebel’ when he’s really nothing more than an overgrown, angry drunk.”

“Cersei…” Jaime warned, his green eyes narrowing at his snarky twin, “You’re going too far as usual.  Shut.  Up.”

Cersei sniffed in mock amusement, “No, dear brother, I won’t ‘shut up’ this time, I’m afraid.”  Turning her wrath back toward Sansa, Cersei shot her self-appointed nemesis another salvo, “You have absolutely nothing to offer Clegane that he will want.  None of us here do, really.  Money, fame, power, adulation…he’s never cared about any of it.”  And as Sansa was just about to attempt to defend herself against her superior’s attack, Cersei held up her hand in dramatic pause to silence Sansa on the matter, “No, wait, come to think of it, you _do_ have something that Clegane would want.  The best weapon of yours is between your legs.  Are you willing to use it on him like you did my son?”

For the second time this morning, the room fell silent.

Sansa knew that the extreme mortification now coursing through her body was causing her entire lightly-freckled face and neck to blush.  She wanted to dive across the table and beat the living shit out of Cersei.  _God, how glorious that would be!_ Before Sansa could do something stupid, she felt Margaery reach out, grabbing her by the forearm, willing Sansa to keep her mouth shut.  The Lannisters were extraordinarily wealthy, powerful people and had connections all throughout the music industry.  If Sansa retaliated right now, her job would be lost and her career in the business would be finished.  On many occasions, Sansa and Margaery spent time together away from work, talking about how much they hated Petyr and Cersei, but the young women understood that paying their dues here would get their foot in the door elsewhere one day.

_You can do this.  You’re a Stark.  Starks don’t quit._

“Winter is coming to White Harbor,” Sansa sneered at Cersei before turning her full attention to Tyrion, taking a deep breath to steady her frazzled nerves, “And since my research indicated correctly that Sandor is in fact docked in White Harbor right now, that means he will be travelling soon.  He will most likely set sail to spend the winter in Lemonwood, as we know that he has done in the past, thanks again to my _research_.”  Sansa chanced a quick hateful glance in Cersei’s direction before continuing, “Since you spoke to Sandor only yesterday, my gut is telling me that Sandor will be in White Harbor at least a couple more days.  Let me fly over there tomorrow so I can catch him before he sets sail.”

“Well, Sansa, that sounds all well and good.  But what, pray tell, do you propose to do if in fact you catch him?” Tyrion asked curiously, his hand rubbing his bearded chin as he pondered her suggestion.

This was it.  Sansa’s moment in the spotlight had come.  If she were successful in finding Sandor and convincing him to come back to Westeros with her, she would secure her place at Golden Lion Records for all eternity.  No one would ever question her ability to produce again.  In fact, if she played her cards right, Sansa could parlay her victory into a more lucrative position within the company.

And to top it all off, Sansa would actually get to meet and to spend time with _the_ Sandor Clegane, bona fide rock and roll guitar god.  That was enough motivation in and of itself.  She could do this.  She _so_ could do this.

“I’ll do whatever it takes to persuade him to come back with me,” Sansa boldly affirmed, feeling Cersei’s menacing stare boring holes into the side of her ginger head, “I’ve never let you down, Tyrion, and I won’t start now.  He _will_ come back here.  Period.”

“Then it’s settled!” Tyrion exclaimed as he clapped, obviously proud of Sansa for not only standing up to his hateful older sister but for her devotion to the company, “Sansa, you will leave tomorrow to fetch our man, Clegane.  Take the rest of the day off to pack and get your personal affairs in order.  You are free to take as much time as necessary to find him and to…do whatever is necessary to secure the deal.”  As he rose from the table, Tyrion effectively put an end to today’s Small Council meeting.  “I have no doubt that Clegane will rue the day that Sansa Stark came looking for him,” Tyrion teased with a wink as he gathered his brown leather notebook from the table.

“Thank you for your vote of confidence,” Sansa smiled feebly.  As Sansa rose from her seat, Jaime walked over to stand beside her.

“No, Sansa, thank you,” Jaime spoke softly, studying Sansa intently before glancing over his shoulder at his twin sister who was storming out of the conference room in a flury of high-end fashion, “Cersei is…well, she can be difficult at times.  You could have said all manner of things in return to her pithy comment, yet you refrained.  Thank you for rising above her taunt.”

Sansa was floored.  “You’re welcome,” was all she could manage to reply.

“One word of caution about Clegane,” Jaime continued as he stepped closer to her, his normally slightly aloof smirk fading instantly, “Cersei was right about one thing; he suffers neither fools nor liars.  I don’t care how many years have passed; the man won’t budge an inch if he smells deceit.”

Listening to Jaime’s advice, Sansa simply nodded in agreement.

“Good luck, Sansa,” Jaime grinned, backing up toward the conference room doorway, “I certainly hope you can convince him to come back to us.”

“Thanks,” Sansa added as Jaime spun on his heels and exited the room.

“Holy shit!” Margaery whispered to Sansa as she rushed forward.  During Jaime’s conversation with Sansa, Margaery had pretended to be busy with her notebook and purse when actually she was eavesdropping on their little tête-a-tête, “I’m so fucking proud of you right now, I could scream!  That was amazing.  Like, _amazing!”_ The two young women swiftly collected their things before heading to the door.

“I don’t know, Marge,” Sansa sighed nervously as she and Margaery filed out of the conference room, “I mean, I don’t know what got into me.  How in the hell can I convince Sandor to go along with the plan?”  Sansa swallowed hard, the reality of what she had just done finally settling in as her best friend’s wide blue eyes gawked at her in awe.   _I’m going to travel to White Harbor all alone,_ Sansa fretted,  _I have to convince Sandor Clegane to reunite with Kingslayer.  Did I mention that I was going to be all alone?  With Sandor Clegane?  Just me.  And Sandor…oh, yeah, I’ve so got this…_

“If that man won’t listen to you, then he won’t listen to anyone,” Margaery grinned as she wrapped her well-toned arm around Sansa’s elbow, “You’re beautiful, smart, and sexy.  He doesn’t stand a chance.”

Sansa snorted at Margaery’s assessment of the situation, “Yeah, right.”

“I’m serious!” Margaery added, “I know how much you love Kingslayer.  Everyone around here does.  You’re like a walking Kingslayer Wikipedia website.  I can’t imagine anyone else who knows as much about the band as you do.  Hell, even Bronn said that you knew more about the band than he did last week at lunch, remember?”

“That’s because he snorted enough coke to fry his entire midbrain,” Sansa joked.

“C’mon, you know as well as I do that Sandor isn’t going to listen to Jaime or Tyrion or anyone else,” Margaery grinned, rolling her eyes at Sansa, “Your love for Sandor and for the band will shine through so brightly, I just know he’ll see how sincere you are.  I have faith in you.  I know you can do this.”

Sighing heavily as they made their way down the hall, Sansa added, “You know that if I don’t succeed in convincing Sandor to rejoin the band, Cersei will throw a party right after she makes Jaime fire me.”

Margaery giggled as they stopped in front of Sansa’s office, “Stop that, now, you hear?  You’re nothing short of an expert when it comes to Kingslayer and Sandor Clegane.  You probably know the man better than he even knows himself.  Trust me; there’s no better person for the job.”

“Really?”

“Really.  And, for the record, I’m all for what Cersei said.  Use any ‘weapon’ against Clegane that you want.  You have my blessing.”

“Margaery!”

“I’m coming over tonight to help you pack, by the way,” Margaery added as she sashayed toward her own office, “Clegane might be an aging rock star, but he’s still a man.  Just saying…”

 _Oh God, what have I gotten myself into?_ Sansa grumbled to herself as she entered her office, listening to the lilting sound of Margaery’s laughter floating down the hallway, _I’m so screwed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The rock and roll business is pretty absurd, but the world of serious music is much worse." - Frank Zappa


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While undertaking one seriously long, exhausting trip to White Harbor in hopes of tracking down the elusive Sandor Clegane, Sansa ponders his life, his rise to the top of the charts with Kingslayer, and his tragic fall. Once in White Harbor, Sansa encounters some of the local talent before stumbling upon the _real_ talent in town. How will Sansa react to finally meeting the object of her school-girl crush? And just how will she convince Sandor to listen to her in the first place?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now, for Sandor's tragic backstory...and if you're patient enough to make it through all of that, then I'm quite certain you will be happy to know that Sandor finally appears on the scene in this chapter. Enjoy - this is a long one, folks!

Although Sansa prided herself on her ability to research the white off rice, she had met her match when it came time to plan her journey to track down Sandor Clegane.  She quickly discovered that because White Harbor was so small, it barely qualified for inclusion on a map.  Booking a flight that would directly land her in the location where Sandor was probably still holed up was impossible.  Spending over two hours of her life that she would never get back just to come up with a travel itinerary, Sansa finally wound up settling for the best option possible; she would face three layovers and a two-hour drive from the closest backwoods, podunk town to White Harbor that also had an airport. 

After experiencing a terrifying round of heart palpitations during her last flight in the tiny, antiquated Cessna turboprop she would have sworn existed as a crop duster in a previous life, Sansa was welcomed with less-than open arms upon her arrival in Planky Town.  Much to her shock and frustration, she discovered that the “airport” was nothing more than a single runway and a metal outbuilding with one hateful old lady sitting behind the counter that posed as a travel agency, car rental company, and snack bar.  Of course, Sansa’s online reservation for a comfortable, mid-size sedan was nowhere on file, so she gritted her teeth, offering her best, friendliest smile when the curt old woman smugly handed her the keys to a ridiculously small compact car.

White Harbor, it turned out, was a tiny, remote fishing hovel with a population less than the size of Sansa’s senior class in high school.  It also turned out to be substantially more than a two-hour drive to White Harbor from the airport, mostly because Sansa’s cellular service was spotty at best, causing her GPS to fade in and out constantly.  She wound up driving in circles several times, cursing profusely on at least four occasions when she realized that she had either gone the wrong direction or had made the wrong turn.  _Thankfully, I brought something to entertain me,_ Sansa sighed heavily as she popped in her earbuds and attached them to her iPod.  Listening to _Blackwater Rush,_ the second of Kingslayer’s five studio albums, Sansa felt herself growing calmer and more serene by the second.  Even though some folks might not think that grinding guitars and pounding drums could relax someone, Sansa did.  Listening to Kingslayer as she ambled on down the highway helped her fight the urge to pull the freakishly small car over and scream at the top of her lungs.

With all her might, Sansa needed to mentally prepare herself for the uphill battle that she would surely face when she finally managed to track down Sandor Clegane.  While allowing herself to drift into a state of catatonic bliss while grooving to the beat as she drove, Sansa reflected upon her research and working knowledge of the band.  She also reviewed what she had learned about Kingslayer during her time spent in the company of the other three members over the last several weeks.  Jaime, Jorah, and Bronn willingly had allowed her to pick their brains for information, freely telling her anything and everything she asked about their history, their rise to the top, and their subsequent break-up.  Although Sansa could tell the subject matter was painful for the band members, she pressed gently, hoping that hearing their various sides of the story would help her pull together the data that the Small Council would need to make a decision on how to pursue Sandor.  Little did she imagine that _she_ would be using that research to find him herself.

In the eyes of an entire generation of hard rock fans, Sandor had been the equivalent of a deity.  He had been raised by his working-class, disengaged alcoholic dad after his mother passed when Sandor was four years old.  Sandor’s older brother, Gregor, who had been nothing but a giant bully and tormentor to his younger brother, ran away from home when Sandor was 12.  As a result, Sandor inadvertently inherited Gregor’s cheap electric guitar that had been left behind.  Sandor quickly realized that his natural aptitude at playing helped him transcend his turbulent home life.

Dubbed “The Hound” by his childhood friend and bandmate, Bronn, due to his tenacity in mastering the instrument, Sandor was rarely seen in public without his guitar by the time he was 15.  He found himself in trouble on multiple occasions with his principal for cutting class to hang out under the bleachers to play instead of study.  Neither Sandor nor Bronn saw much use in hanging around their daytime prison when they would rather be writing songs or listening to classic rock artists from decades past.  Forgoing their mediocre public school education, Sandor and Bronn dropped out of school their last year.  The young musicians found low-paying, dead-end jobs and began to pursue their dream of playing professionally.

It was during these formative years that Sandor’s technical skills soared.  For hours every day, Sandor rehearsed, practiced, jammed or performed.  Within their first year, Sandor and Bronn began to carve a name for themselves into the local music scene.  They also managed to cycle through at least four lead singers and three bassists, mostly because Sandor could neither find the right people to create the sound that he envisioned nor to put up with his moodiness.

It wasn’t until Sandor and Bronn met Jorah by accident one fateful night at a local nightclub that Sandor actually felt like he had found the perfect match.  Right smack-dab in the middle of a set, Sandor had fired his band’s bass guitar player after engaging in one heinous on-stage fight.  Jorah, who had recently dropped out of college because he felt his creativity was stifled, happened to be in the club that night with some friends.  Since he was not in a band at the time, Jorah walked right up to Sandor while the humongous guitarist was still cursing after his row with the now-fired bassist.  Jorah offered to fill in for the band till their set was finished.  Sandor and Bronn, desperate to finish their gig, readily agreed.  They were both floored by Jorah’s skill and precision.  Even though Jorah had never even heard their original songs and had never rehearsed their cover tunes one second with them, he was able to flawlessly back them up the entire night.  Sandor asked Jorah to join the band immediately, and Jorah accepted the offer.

Thanks to their new bassist, Sandor and Bronn were introduced a week later to Jaime, whom Jorah knew from having attended the same elite private high school as Jaime.  Everyone in Westeros knew Jaime Lannister if not in person then by his name alone.  His father, Tywin, who was not a musician himself but had managed several popular local acts, was uncommonly wealthy and extremely well-connected within the music scene in Westeros.  Against his father’s wishes, Jaime delayed attending the same ivy-league university his father had attended, instead pursuing his dream to become the “next big thing.”  When Jaime met Sandor and Bronn, Jaime was fronting the highly popular local hard rock cover band, The White Cloaks.  Sandor was not impressed with Jaime’s conceited tone, but Bronn was bowled over at hearing Jaime’s four-octave range and at the young lion’s ability to bring in the ladies.  After very little persuasion by Jorah and Bronn, Sandor huffed in defeat and asked Jaime to join them.  Realizing that Jorah’s group was far superior to his own, Jaime agreed to ditch his band and to join them.

Kingslayer was officially born.

Shortly after cementing the band’s line-up, Kingslayer’s star began to rise rapidly.  Their local fame spread quickly, and before they knew what hit them, they were travelling from city to city, building an enormous fan base all the while.  Tywin assumed command as Kingslayer’s manager, and after having called in several favors from the music moguls in the area, he procured the band their first record deal.  Their first album, _Iron Throne_ , was a runaway commercial success, going multiplatinum faster than anyone could have predicted.  For almost a year, the band toured non-stop after their first release, still managing to crank out another highly popular and successful album, _Blackwater Rush_ , the next year.

The four young men were overwhelmed at how drastically their lives changed in such a short period of time.  Although the other three band members enjoyed various facets of their new-found fame and wealth, Sandor always felt like he had sold his soul to Satan himself.  His once flaming passion for playing the guitar and for making his music was now overshadowed by press conferences, television appearances, radio interviews, and business meetings about their upcoming album.  The record label and recording studio always had an opinion of the band’s songs and their sound.  All Sandor had ever wanted to do was make enough money to put food on the table and a roof over his head.  Fame and fortune had always sounded like a royal pain in the ass.  It didn’t take him long to realize that once he had both, he had been absolutely correct about the matter ten times over.

Unable to handle the pressures and expectations that befell him, Sandor’s moodiness and short-tempered disposition only worsened along with his drinking habits.  As the years ticked by them, the band’s strongest personalities, namely Jaime and Sandor, began to clash both in the studio and off stage, sometimes even violently.  Even though he was uncomfortable being famous, Jorah was always grateful for Kingslayer’s success and always played the role of the peacemaker, trying his best to keep Sandor and Jaime from killing each other on multiple occasions.  Bronn, however, was cool with his persona as the group’s merry andrew, perfectly content to let his bandmates duke it out while sitting back and enjoying the spoils of war, so to speak, all the while drowning himself in his growing addictions.

By the time the band’s fifth album, _Kingsroad_ , was being produced, Bronn’s drug use, Sandor’s alcohol consumption and volatile temper, mixed in with a healthy dose of Jaime’s prima donna tendencies drove Jorah to the brink of madness.  No longer able to see the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel, Jorah finally broke the news to the band while in the studio one late night when they were laying down tracks for the album.  Jorah wanted out; he wanted to quit once and for all.  Sandor was shocked, Bronn was upset, and Jaime openly suggested that Jorah could be replaced if he had the gall to abandon ship.

That did it.  The idea that somehow Kingslayer had become nothing more to Jaime than a merchandising machine and a vehicle for wallowing in their vices sent Sandor over the edge of reason.  Throwing his guitar down in a fury, Sandor charged Jaime, threatening to snap him in two.  Within seconds, Jaime was deflecting Sandor’s wrath, using his own guitar to stop Sandor’s blows.  Terrified of the scene unfolding in the studio, the sound engineer, who was hiding under the sound board in his booth, started screeching over the intercom, begging the lot of them to sit the fuck down and work it out or he was calling security.  Launching off his drum kit, Bronn had to physically restrain Sandor, who in his rage, accidentally clocked Bronn with a punch.  As Jorah ran to Bronn, desperately trying to stop the blood pouring from Bronn’s nose, Sandor realized what he had done.

The shouts and curses being hurled around the studio by his bandmates sounded faintly muffled, as if Sandor had dove underwater the instant his fist connected with Bronn’s face.  Backing up slowly, Sandor looked at his bruised, scraped knuckles and then around the studio where just minutes earlier they were recording a new song that he had written with Jorah earlier in the week.  Out of the corner of his eye, Sandor saw the virtually empty bottle of Jack Daniels perched on top of his amplifier that he had consumed during the course of the recording session.  In that moment, Sandor shut down emotionally.

Bursting out of the studio, Sandor ran as fast as he could to his truck, jumping in like a race car driver.  As Jorah and Bronn bolted out of the studio and into the parking lot, yelling for Sandor to stop and to stay and talk, Sandor did not listen to them, instead hitting the gas and racing into the darkness of the night.

Now pulled over at an old-school, mom-and-pop style gas station, Sansa stood outside in the blustery wind while pumping herself a tank full of petrol, wishing to all the gods that she had remembered to grab her ski jacket out of the closet on her way out the door of her apartment.  After jogging inside to pay and to grab a protein bar and bottle of water for the last leg of her journey, Sansa sighed heavily as she thought about what happened to Sandor that fateful night that he had fled the studio.

According to Bronn during lunch last week, Sandor was well over the legal limit when he tried to drive himself home.  Whether it was the level of alcohol in his gigantic body or the slick road conditions from the thunderstorms earlier that evening, on the way to his house, Sandor lost control of his truck on a curvy backroad about a mile from his own driveway.   His truck smashed into a huge tree.  Upon impact his truck erupted into flames, most likely caused by a gas leak.  To this day, no one knows just how Sandor managed to survive the fiery crash, but when the police and emergency response unit had arrived at the scene, Sandor was unconscious and face-down on the ground, lying several feet away from the crash.

Although he had miraculously survived, Sandor suffered severe burns to the right side of his face, forcing the doctors to keep him under medical sedation for several weeks to allow his body rest and time to start the healing process.  Sandor had lost the outward appearance of his right ear, and the severe burns received from the crash had left his face so disfigured that Sandor faced a battery of skin grafts and treatments.  His thigh on his right side had been punctured by a piece of metal, causing a huge, nasty gash and nerve damage that once healed would leave a slight permanent limp.

News of the horrific crash spread rapidly, and the press desperately tried to gain access to Sandor’s hospital room to obtain photos.  Holding vigil at his bedside while he lay in a coma, Sandor’s bandmates rallied together, putting aside their differences to take shifts in Sandor’s hospital room, protecting Sandor’s privacy as fiercely as a den of mother lionesses.  The emotional turmoil and the circumstances of Sandor’s crash haunted Bronn, so much so that he ran off to join the Sparrows, a religious cult out west, before Sandor had even awoken.  When he did finally awake, Sandor’s rage and anguish from the pain eventually drove away both Jorah and Jaime, leaving Sandor all alone to drown in his own personal demons.  For almost two years, Sandor’s life was spent undergoing skin grafts, reconstructive surgeries, and physical therapies.

Sniffling as a result of her deeply mournful stroll down memory lane, Sansa saw the road sign pointing toward White Harbor.  _Hallelujah, only 20 minutes to go._ Sansa once again returned to thinking about her research notes as the signs of life along the highway began to return.  Although several articles about his progress existed, Sansa could not track down one single of photo of Sandor during his time in recovery.  Not a single one.  But the strangest thing that Sansa encountered while conducting her research into Sandor’s whereabouts was that after he was discharged from the hospital, all public records pertaining to Sandor Clegane virtually cease to exist.  For almost a decade, the guitarist had all but vanished.

 _How is it even possible to live in our modern world and not leave any footprints?_ Sansa wondered.

Sansa did learn enough about Sandor’s life since the accident to piece together a few facts.  He never married or had children.  He lives on a boat at least 90 percent of the year.  Apparently, he docks in White Harbor during the summer and Lemonwood in the winter.  Based on current weather conditions, Sansa was certain that he would sail for Lemonwood within the week.  She had paid good money for that phone number that had turned out to be a dud, but it still helped her trace him this far.

 _It’s like he’s a ghost,_ Sansa mused while humming the lyrics to “Dragonstone” to herself.

Almost five hours after starting her car trip, an exhausted and starving Sansa was pulling her uncomfortable economy-sized rental car into the parking lot of Widow’s Watch, the diner in which Sandor apparently eats since his last known phone number that she could trace belonged to this establishment.  Sansa stood outside her car, stretching her arms and legs like a cat waking up from a nap.  Surveying her surroundings, Sansa realized rapidly that she was severely over-dressed in this small fishing town.

At 5’9”, Sansa was impressively tall in her two-inch black suede heels.  Her long, flaming-red hair was loosely flowing down her back, contrasting brightly against her silky, black two-piece trousers suit that she had paired with a black, lacey blouse.  Apparently, the fashion trends in White Harbor were not quite the same as they were back home in the large, metropolitan city of Westeros.

Noticing the stares of the local talent perched on old wooden chairs outside the small drugstore across the road, Sansa suddenly felt like a complete idiot.  Defiantly, she lifted her chin, marching right into the little diner like she owned the place.

“Excuse me,” she greeted the man behind the counter as she seated herself on a stool at the bar, “I’m looking for someone.”

“Is that right?” a homely, older man gruffed, flipping over a coffee cup in front of her and pouring a steaming cup of black liquid into it without asking her.  The man sported a long, unkempt beard with shaggy, ruddy-colored long hair and a severe receding hairline.  What was left of his hair on top was pulled up into a silly looking top-knot.

Sansa wrinkled her nose both at the man’s appearance and at the smell wafting up from the coffee mug.  The alleged coffee looked like jet fuel and smelled…worse.

“Uh, yes, sir.  I’m trying to locate a man called Sandor Clegane,” she continued, trying to casually glance around the establishment, “Do you happen to know him?”  She was alone in the diner, save for one extremely ancient-looking old man sitting two stools down from her, sipping his bowl of soup without a spoon.  _Classy._

“Never heard of him,” the man behind the counter replied tersely as he slammed the coffee pot down onto the portable heating pad.

“Well, I’m betting you’ve seen him around,” Sansa continued, undaunted by the man’s lack of cooperation.  “The man I’m searching for is a bit of a loner.  He’s over six and half feet tall.  Black hair, may be short or long, not sure.  Lives on a boat here during the summer months.  Surely you couldn’t have missed him.”

The man crossed his arms in front of his chest and stared at her with one of his bushy auburn eyebrows cocked in challenge.  Nothing. 

“C’mon, I know you know whom I talking about, OK?  The guy used to be a guitar player in a -” Sansa attempted to continue.

“Told you, princess, I never heard of him.” the man huffed, leaning back against the counter that separated the dining area from the kitchen, “Now are you going to order, or you gonna ask me questions all day?”

Sansa was caught off-guard.  She was not prepared to have met such resistance this early in the game.  She decided it was best to play it cool and not alienate anyone in this backwater town just yet.  “Yes, yes of course.  May I see a menu?”

“Menu?” the man snorted with a laugh, “Listen princess, we only got three things here.  Breakfast, lunch, and dinner.  It’s dinner time.  You interested?”

“Well, yes…yes, I am.  Bring me a…dinner, then?  Please?” she smiled artificially, her shoulders tensing, “By the way, I’m new here in town, and I was wondering if you could recommend a place to stay because - ”

“Kind of figured that you weren’t from around here,” the surly diner man chuckled, his eyes narrowing while brazenly eyeing her from top to bottom.

“Um, yeah, I’m just here visiting, so I was wondering…say, I didn’t catch your name?” Sansa chirped, trying her best to not appear grossed out at the thought of this man thinking about her in any way at all.  She was desperate to make this potential lead like her.  Or at least tolerate her.  But not that desperate.  _Hell, no._

“Didn’t throw it.” the man snarled at her with a smirk, spinning on his cowboy boots as he turned toward the kitchen entryway, disappearing momentarily behind the swinging double doors.  Sansa could hear the sounds of pots and dishes clanking and rattling in the back.  Swallowing hard at the thought of what inedible concoction would be coming her way, Sansa took a deep breath to steel her nerves, even though she was at a loss as to how she should proceed.  The decrepit old man at the end of the counter suddenly slurped his soup so loudly that it snapped Sansa’s head in his direction.  When Sansa shot him a look that betrayed her annoyance, his beady brown eyes met hers, and to her chagrin, he proceeded to flash her a toothless, sloppy smile.  _Who even eats like that in public?_ she fumed internally while turning away in disgust.

As Sansa waited for the hateful diner operator to reappear so she could attempt a new volley of questions, she heard the bell on the front door chime as the door burst wide open.

“Thoros, gimme a dinner to go,” Sansa heard a man’s voice bellow forcefully from behind her, a blast of cold, crisp air swirling around her before the diner door slammed closed.  The new patron who had just entered the facility stomped behind Sansa toward the small hallway that most likely led to a bathroom and a rear exit.  Swiveling on her bar stool, she caught sight of a ridiculously tall man’s backside as he ambled onward.  He was sporting a brown, fully lined leather jacket, faded jeans, and brown leather boots.  His black, shoulder-length hair was partially hidden underneath a gray watch cap, and around his neck the huge man wore a bright red plaid scarf.

Before Sansa’s brain could process the visual, Thoros emerged from the kitchen area in utter haste, hanging onto the doorframe as he loudly yelled to the newcomer, “Bird on a wire!”

Apparently, Thoros had spoken in some sort of cryptic code because once the words had left his mouth and travelled across the diner, the enormous man froze like a statue in his tracks.  With his massive back facing Sansa, the man did not turn around as he all but whispered, “Right.  Cancel that.”  And without warning, he suddenly bolted toward the rear exit, an extremely faint hint of a limp apparent in his stride.

At that moment, Sansa’s dumbfounded brain finally caught up to the scene going down in the diner.  _Shit!  It’s him!_

“Wait, please!” Sansa called after Sandor, but he did not stop, instead picking up the pace considerably.  Hot on his boot-covered heels as she exploded out of the rear exit, Sansa caught sight of her target rounding the corner of the building and heading toward a huge, black, beat-up older model Ford F-250.

“Please, Mr. Clegane, stop!  I really need to talk to you!” Sansa yelled in a panic as she watched Sandor hop inside the cab of his worn-out truck and slam the driver’s side door shut.  When he shoved the truck into gear, she broke into a run, desperate to stop him before he drove away and faded into obscurity once and for all.  Unfortunately for Sansa, she realized too late that her designer-label heels were not the best foot wear for a foot chase.  The heel of her right shoe became ensnared in the gravel littering the muddy parking lot, snapping off the foot of her shoe with a noisy crunch.  Losing her balance, Sansa pitched forward, throwing her arms out in front of herself to break her fall, and she landed unceremoniously on the ground smack-dab on her hands and knees.

“OW!” Sansa shrieked in pain, the jagged gravel digging into the flesh on her palms and scratching at her knees through her black trousers.  Tears began to form in her eyes, trickling down her cheeks before she realized that she was crying in the first place.  The joy at having found Sandor, mixed with her exhaustion from the length of her trip to White Harbor and the realization that she was going to screw this up completely within minutes after arriving in town, caused her to sob and laugh, all at the same time.

As she slowly stood, trying to maintain as dignified an air as she could muster considering the circumstances, she looked up to see red tail lights.  Sandor had stopped his truck.  He had not fled.

Before Sansa could think any further, Sandor’s truck door jerked opened.  He emerged from the vehicle in a flurry of obvious irritation, slamming the door shut behind him as he began stalking toward her.  When he was no more than two feet from her, Sansa’s eyes widened at the sight of her former school-girl fantasy.

His long black hair, partially hanging across the right-side of his visage, could not completely hide the remnants of his near-fatal car wreck years past.  The right side of his face was a ruin, full of reddened flesh, raised ridges and scars.  His right eyebrow was missing, and the skin on his forehead drooped ever-so-slightly.  Sandor must have suffered.  Dear God.  How could he not have?  Yet, Sandor’s marred countenance didn’t change the fact that Sansa still thought that he was just as handsome and as sexy as always.  And well-built.  Jesus, the many might even be more muscled now than he was 20 years ago.  Damn…just, _damn._

As she drunk in the sight of him, Sansa knew perfectly well that she was staring at Sandor as he approached her.  She knew that she shouldn’t really let her ocean-blue eyes blatantly rake over him when he finally stood before her.  She knew all of that.  But fuck it, she’d been waiting for this moment for what felt like a lifetime, and she sure as hell wanted to savor it as long as possible.

What Sansa didn’t know, however, was the reason why Sandor wasn’t yelling at her or telling her to fuck off right now.  That completely eluded her.  One thing was certain, though.  She needed to speak.  Her mouth gaping slightly, Sansa tried to shove a coherent thought out of her mouth.  Nope.  Nothing.  Just a tiny chirp like some goddamn baby bird.  Nice.  Now she not only looked like a complete moron, she sounded like one, too.  What a way to make a first impression.

“You’re shaking, girl,” Sandor finally spoke, his voice deep and raspy, “Do I frighten you so much?”

Sansa hadn’t realized it until Sandor pointed out the obvious, but yeah, she was in fact shaking.  It was so damn cold here in White Harbor, far colder than she had planned, and the thin material of her suit jacket and the transparency of her blouse were not providing much warmth.  “No, actually, but I was wondering the same thing about you,” Sansa smiled feebly, thanking all the gods that she had rediscovered her voice while wrapping her arms around herself in an attempt to keep herself warm.  Humor was Sansa’s go-to defense mechanism when nervous. 

Sandor’s good eyebrow shot up, a smile creeping across his face when Sansa shivered uncontrollably, “You don’t say?”

They stood there in an awkward silence for what seemed like an eternity, both unsure of what to say next.  Finally, without saying a word, Sandor quickly removed his leather jacket and draped it over Sansa’s shoulders without asking permission.  The warm, heavy jacket engulfed her, the lingering scent from its owner threatening to overwhelm her, so Sansa pulled it tightly around her svelte form, hoping that she didn’t look as giddy as she truly felt.

“Thanks,” she muttered softly, the whole moment seeming a bit surreal.

Never one to beat around the proverbial bush, Sandor folded his arms in front of his chest, his narrowed gray eyes scrutinizing Sansa like he was looking at her through a magnifying glass.  “Why in the hell are you here, little bird?” he asked sharply, cocking his head to the side, studying her intensely, “Why is a pretty young girl like you trying to hunt down an old scarred dog like me, eh?”  His powerful gaze, however, did not make her feel uneasy.  In fact, it was having the opposite effect.  No, Sansa wasn’t actually feeling nervous at present, a fact that shocked her to the core.  She was in awe.  Unconditionally astounded that the elusive rock icon was standing less than a foot away from her.  And Jesus H. Christ…she was wearing Sandor’s damn jacket.  Holy moly.

Standing so close to Sandor Clegane, the object of too many fantasies to count, Sansa suddenly felt a little light-headed.  He smelled like fresh pine needles and campfire smoke.  The red plaid scarf and watch cap that he had worn in the diner must have been removed when he had fled to his truck.  Now without his leather jacket as well, Sansa could see that Sandor’s blue plaid flannel shirt was unbuttoned a few notches at the neck, revealing a thick patch of dark, coarse chest hair.  The arms of his shirt were rolled up, and his faded blue jeans were so tight, she was certain that he must have caught her taking a glance at his package.  Sandor still wore a full beard, but now it was a little sparse in places on the burned side of his face.  Although he sported a few extra lines and crinkles in his face, he did not look that much different than he did back in Kingslayer’s heyday.

Well, the scars definitely looked different, but damn her if he didn’t seem as sinfully beddable as he had been when she had his pictures stuck on her bedroom walls.

Before she answered Sandor’s questions, Jaime’s words from the Small Council meeting echoed in her brain: Sandor suffers neither fools nor liars.  Now was not the time to dick around, folks.  Now was the time to rip off the proverbial band-aid and for her get her sorry ass right to the point.  Sansa took a deep breath, exhaling to steady her nerves before laying all of her cards out on the table.

“I work for Jaime and Tyrion Lannister at Golden Lion Records,” Sansa began, willing herself to not gush like a complete fangirl moron, “And I promised my bosses that I would spend the rest of my natural born life trying to find you and trying to convince you to rejoin your bandmates for a reunion tour and CD.”  Pausing to catch her breath, Sansa decided to fire her final salvo, praying the whole time that her forthright demeanor would sway Sandor to at least hear her out, “And, for the record, I already know that you’d rather rape a corpse than to reunite with Kingslayer, but seriously, I really think that you should hear me out.  Then, if you still think the idea is a sack of shit, would you please consider at least allowing me to have 20 minutes of your time so I can go back to Westeros and die a happy woman knowing that I had a chance to talk to my all-time favorite guitarist?”  Almost needing to gasp for air, Sansa took a deep breath.  _Now he’ll laugh at you, and you can slink back home with your tail between your legs,_ she mused to herself while waiting for Sandor’s reaction.

To her amazement, Sandor didn’t laugh at her proclamation.  He didn’t yell, he didn’t cry, and he didn’t run away again, either.  Sandor’s mouth simply quirked into a slight smile upon hearing Sansa's blatantly honest, half-assed sales pitch.  Jaime’s instincts had proven correct.  About the being honest part, at least.

Reaching out carefully, Sandor took both of her scraped hands in his, turning them over to examine her minor abrasions from her fall.  “Might be we should tend to these scuffs,” he said softly, almost to himself as he studied her palms.

Sansa was stunned.  Stupefied was more like it.  No, make that flabbergasted.

To her amazement, Sandor just stood there before her, continuing to give her hands the once-over, not letting go of her at all.  Sansa could almost see the wheels frenetically spinning around in his brain as he calculated his response.  What would Sandor’s next move be?  Well, it turned out to be a move that Sansa would never had dreamed possible.

“My boat is docked not too far from town.  Follow me there, yeah?” Sandor offered, his steel-gray eyes rising to look into her own, “You can use my first-aid kit.  And I’ll make some coffee, too.  Real coffee, mind you.  Not like that shite that Thoros serves.”

Whether it was because of the stress of her travels or the sheer insanity of finally meeting her rock and roll hero, Sansa burst into a fit of raucous laughter, an action that caused Sandor to emit a small chuckle in return as he finally released his hold of her hands.

“OK,” Sansa answered breathlessly, shifting his extremely heavy leather jacket slightly while staring at him like a fool.  The sensation of having Sandor standing so close to her and smelling like the outdoors and looking at her with that curious, slightly overwhelmed expression on his face…yup, it was official.  Somewhere in between arriving in White Harbor and the present, Sansa had died and gone to heaven.  _Holy shit, Sansa, now what?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "You only pass through this life once. You don't come back for an encore." - Elvis Presley


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After years spent guarding his privacy and avoiding people who want to resurrect him, Sandor tries to figure out just what in the hell it is about Sansa that caused him to invite the young woman to his boat in the first place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, dear readers! I'm so sorry that it has taken me what feels like an eternity to revisit this epic saga about our aging rock star and the young redhead who adores him. Between real-life and writer's block, I wasn't sure I'd ever figure out where I wanted to head with this tale. However, after much hemming and hawing about the plot, I think I have a vision for these two protagonists. I hope you're still with me, and I promise that I will try to get the damn updates posted faster this time.
> 
> And just so you know, I reread each and every one of your lovely comments over the last three chapters before attempting to write any more of this story. I dare say, those comments are what sparked my muse once again. Thank you to all of you out there who take the time to say something back to me. I do appreciate it!

Unbeknownst to Sansa, she wasn’t the only one who was thinking “Now what?”

 _Bloody hell,_ Sandor internally warred with himself as he let out a slow, deep breath, his strong hands gripping the steering wheel while travelling the short stretch of highway heading outside of White Harbor, _Inviting that girl to your place like some goddamn old lady asking her over for tea…what the hell has gotten into you, eh?_

Making his way to the docks where he had moored his boat, Sandor paused his internal chastisement long enough to chance a quick glance out of his rearview mirror.  Even though he was struggling to come up with a valid reason as to why he had willingly signed up to wet nurse the pretty young redhead, Sandor couldn’t help but smirk upon the seeing Sansa all stuffed into her ridiculously tiny Matchbox car masquerading as a rental.  The poor girl looked completely miserable driving that thing.

As he returned his focus to the virtually deserted roadway before him, Sandor sighed heavily once again, quickly jerking his large hand off the steering wheel just long enough to card it through his shoulder-length black hair, shaking his head in disbelief that he had actually volunteered to bring Sansa to his boat.

For years, the solitary guitarist had managed to stay off the grid.  Ensconced in his self-induced isolation, Sandor had artfully dodged the overzealous media, the rabid fans, and for the last few weeks, the futile attempts of his former bandmates to resurrect him from his walking grave.  Regardless of his past notoriety, staying under the radar was no simple feat for a man of his stature who also happened to sport a scarred-up face like his.  Yet, he had managed to pull off the impossible.  Sandor had clung to his solitude for so long and with such ferocity that very few people wormed their way onto his radar.

And yet, in the span of a mere handful of minutes, the redheaded beauty with the sky-blue eyes and the lilting voice had him sitting in here in his goddamn truck, leading the svelte young lady right into his formally forbidden sanctuary on the water.

 _I must be going mad,_ Sandor snorted to himself as he turned off the highway down the gravel, windy roadway leading to the dock, _Too many hours spent on deck in the sun, I suppose…_

Sandor couldn’t really remember how long it had been since a private investigator, a reporter, or some nut-job fan had managed to track him down like the young woman had managed to do this evening.  Thanks to Thoros and Beric, the proprietor of the local tavern (the only one in town, to be exact), for years Sandor had managed to successfully elude the curious folks who came looking for him.  Both men were about Sandor’s age, and like Sandor, they had sought refuge in White Harbor long ago, relocating to the small, reclusive town in order to escape their former mainstream existence.  Neither of them cared an iota about Sandor’s past fame or fortune, a trait that Sandor had valued tremendously over the years.  Beric and Thoros had always treated Sandor just like all the other lost souls wandering in and out of their establishments, never asking any probing questions or seeking any information that was not offered.

Although Sandor hadn’t exactly become close to either Thoros or Beric, over time the three men had developed a mutual respect and understanding with one another.  When in White Harbor for the summer months, Sandor helped out around their respective establishments as well as their mutually owned acreage just outside of town, doing odd jobs and the like, and in return, the two men offered Sandor free meals and a place to moor his boat.  Thoros and Beric also seemed to know everyone and everything that transpired within a hundred-mile radius, a valuable asset to a man who wanted to avoid the outside world.  Thoros in particular had actually grown quite protective of Sandor as the years ticked by the lot of them, always faithful to signal to Sandor whenever Thoros suspected the reasons why a newcomer claimed to have rolled into town.

Chuckling in amusement as he approached the dock, Sandor’s lips quirked into a grin as he pondered just how quickly his whole damn afternoon had steered so far off course.  When Sandor had first entered Widow’s Watch, he immediately had noticed the pretty little bird all primly perched on her stool the second that he had walked into Thoros’ shite-hole of a diner.  How could he not?  Any healthy, heterosexual male would have certainly taken note of a such a fine looking young lady like her.

However, living all alone while trying to remain hidden from the public eye for so long had trained Sandor well.  There was no fucking way that a woman like _that_ was in White Harbor to see the sights, mostly because there _were_ no sights to see in the first place.  No, Sandor knew that he had smelled a rat.  So, instead of talking to her, Sandor did what he always did when a stranger appeared on the local scene: he pretended that they didn’t exist.  And then, of course, Thoros sounded the alarm.  Yup.  Sandor’s gut had been correct.  The beautiful, well-dressed woman was in town to try to find him.

It definitely wasn’t the first time that Sandor had pulled a Heisman-worthy juke move to elude some fucker who wanted to attempt to snap a photo of his mangled face for a tabloid or who wanted to offer him some ridiculous sum of cash to come out of hiding and to revive his long-ago abandoned music career.  Even with his barely-noticeable limp, Sandor had easily outmaneuvered Sansa as he had exited the diner and made his way around the corner toward the gravel parking lot where he had left his truck.  He could have simply hauled his giant ass the relatively short distance to his boat, and he could have been sailing on the water in a matter of minutes.  The well-built stranger in black would never have been able to follow him any further.  Sandor’s life could have gone back to normal.

 _Normal,_ Sandor huffed as he parked his Ford at the edge of the gravel road that abruptly stopped up on the ridge overlooking the pathway carved into the earth which wound down to the small wooden dock where his boat sat, _Like anything about my life has ever been normal._

Lost in his brief fit of self-denigration, Sandor decided to bide his time just a few extra seconds while watching Sansa pull her car next to his, staying put inside the safety of his truck before getting out to face her once again.  Staring out the passenger side window, Sandor curiously scrutinized Sansa’s every move.  He really needed to figure out why in the hell that he had agreed to take the young woman to his goddamn boat in the first place.

Quickly hopping out of her ludicrous little foreign import, the beautiful young woman stretched her arms, lifting them high above her head while twisting and turning slightly at the waist.  Sansa looked as if she had just risen from a delicious nap.  Glancing around the scene at hand, her curious eyes widened as she surveyed his boat, her arms finally lowering to gently tug Sandor’s oversized, warm leather jacket closer to her body.  Sansa slowly spun in a circle, her mouth gaping open slightly as she began to process her extremely secluded surroundings.  Once again, Sandor snorted in amusement at the lass.  Sansa appeared all wide-eyed and full of wonder as she surveyed the remote, heavily wooded location here at the Thoros and Beric’s privately owned dock.  Now grinning from ear to ear, Sandor didn’t look away when Sansa caught him staring at her from his driver side window.  In fact, instead of being unnerved at the notion that she was in the middle of fucking nowhere with a complete stranger ogling her, the young lady seemed completely comfortable with the situation at hand.  Sansa simply grinned in return right before worrying her plump bottom lip with her teeth, lifting her well-manicured pale hand and gingerly waving at him.

Fucking hell.  The girl was beautiful, no doubt about that.

As Sandor inhaled sharply through his hooked nose, he caught himself waving back at her, feeling like a goddamn moron as he waved, finding it impossible to stop himself from doing so.  Rolling his eyes in frustration as he jerked his keys out of the ignition, he almost laughed out loud at how ludicrous his behavior was at present.  Yet even though he was acting completely out of character, the most shocking thing about his behavior today was that while listening to Sansa when she prattled on about her journey to White Harbor out back of the diner, Sandor had found himself intrigued by the young lady.

Sansa reeked of respect.  True, she had openly gawked at him when he had first approached her after exiting his truck, but the young woman had not done one of the two things that he had expected her to do when he finally had stood before her.  First, Sansa neither simpered nor fawned over him, showering him with vapid praises about his music or his talents on the guitar.  Sandor could always tell when someone genuinely appreciated what he wrote or how he played.  He absolutely hated liars, and he could sniff one out at a thousand paces.  Sandor could also tell when someone was saying a load of shite in hopes of making a fast buck off his name.  Tywin Lannister had schooled him well on that front.

Also, Sansa did not lie about the reason for her presence in White Harbor either.  The girl neither hesitated to be honest nor minced words about her motivation for finding him.  She was completely direct from the minute he had asked her why she was in town.  That floored him, really.  Sansa had freely admitted for whom she worked and why she was trying to talk to him, and she didn’t even bother to pretend that she believed that Sandor would acquiesce.  The girl seemed to have resigned herself to the notion that she had been sent on a fool’s mission.  And then, much to his delight, she let him know that she would simply be happy to talk shop with him before leaving him in peace.  In Sandor’s brain, it had felt like Sansa was tacitly telling him, “Fuck the reunion.  Just let me talk to you as a person for a few minutes, and I promise I’ll disappear.”

The best part of the whole interchange for Sandor was the moment when it dawned on him that the little bird wasn’t staring at his face in horror.  It was obvious that Sansa knew what he had looked like before the accident, yet she didn’t look away from him when he stood before her.  Sansa had bravely stared him eyeball to eyeball, genuinely smiling at him, never flinching or showing one single sign of aversion.  Not once did Sandor believe that it was an effort for her to look at him.  Standing in her presence, Sandor had felt something that he hadn’t felt while around a new face in what seemed like a century.  He had felt…relaxed.  Completely at ease with a completely new person, even if said person was drop-dead gorgeous and extremely up-front with her intentions.

And that scared the fuck out of him.

As Sandor hopped out of his truck, grabbing his watch cap and scarf off the passenger seat right before slamming the door shut, he suited up to brave the dropping temperatures, cursing under his breath at how damn cold it already was getting here in White Harbor.  He couldn’t wait to get on his boat and get his ass to Lemonwood.

Almost as if she were summoned on command, Sansa bounded over to stand in front of him just as Sandor was vigorously rubbing his flannel-clad upper arms.  Fuck if the temperature wasn’t dropping rapidly today.  Winter was coming, that was for certain.  And the little bird still had his coat.

“I’m so sorry!” Sansa chirped brightly, peering up at him with a serious look on her countenance, “You must be freezing!  Here, let me give you back your coat.”  Moving to divest herself of Sandor’s brown leather coat, Sansa’s eyes widened for a split second when he reached out to place his hand on her shoulder.

“I’m fine,” Sandor replied, halting her movements.  His gray eyes narrowed slightly as he realized that he was touching her yet again.  Fuck.  That had to stop.  What in the hell was he doing, anyway?  Withdrawing his hand quickly, he cleared his throat as he added, “I’m a big fucker.  I won’t freeze that easily.”  He folded his long arms in front of his chest, leaning on his good leg while hoping that he wasn’t coming on too strong.

_Coming on too strong?  What in the hell…_

Smiling widely at his comment, Sansa interrupted Sandor’s moment of confusion that dared to overtake his addled brain.  “Is that so?” she giggled, her ungloved hand reaching up to tuck a wayward crimson strand behind her ear.  “I never would have guessed.”

“Yeah.  That’s so,” he sniffed in amusement at her sauciness.  Staring at each other as an awkward silence overtook them, Sandor found himself studying the little bird closely.  Jesus, what was it about this young woman that had him tied in knots today?

“So, that’s your home, right?” Sansa wondered aloud as she stared at his boat, shuffling her weight onto her foot without the broken heel.

“That would be her,” Sandor answered tersely, spinning on his heels, feeling desperate to change the subject matter at hand.  He yanked open the door to his rear cab and began rummaging around the cluttered back seat for his pair of insulated gloves.  Of course, he couldn’t find them.  Of.  Course.

“Wow, you must love the freedom of living like this!” Sansa beamed, her crystal blue eyes blown wide like a kid in the proverbial candy store as she assessed his boat.  “Have you always loved to sail?”  She appeared to be genuine in her amazement at the sight of his old wooden-masted ketch.

Sandor could not help chuckle at her enthusiasm.  “No, I didn’t.  I learned to sail after...well, things changed.”  His eyes drifted out toward the open sea as he reflected wistfully on how long it had been since he had invited any one on board, let alone a gorgeous woman.  Actually, scrap that.  Sandor had _never_ invited a gorgeous woman on board his boat.

That is, until now.  Jesus.  He was really going through with this, wasn’t he?

“Who taught you how to sail?” Sansa asked, cocking her head to the side, watching Sandor as he stared out into the open water.

“A friend,” Sandor rasped, his voice slightly cracking at remembering Ray.  “He’s gone now.  But he was a good man.  Helped me get through the first couple of years after the accident.”

Great.  Just great.  Now with absolutely no encouragement, Sandor was on the verge of spilling his fucking guts to a total stranger like he was some damn drunk at Beric’s tavern.  Good grief.

Instead of waiting for the young woman to ask him another potentially leading question, Sandor locked up his mouth (metaphorically, at least) and opted to move this bizarre little tête-a-tête along quickly.  “Look, I offered you to come here to fix your hands and to have a cup of coffee.  You still interested?”  He motioned with his thumb over his shoulder, pointing toward his boat.

“Absolutely!” Sansa beamed, smiling so wide that she showed her pearly straight teeth, “Lead the way, sir!”

“I’m no sir,” Sandor huffed, slightly amused yet trying not to show it as he extended his arm before him, offering Sansa to lead the way, “But I can be a gentleman should the mood strike.  Ladies first.”

“Why, thank you, _sir,_ ” Sansa taunted, raising her ginger eyebrow in challenge as she hobbled past him toward the pathway leading to the dock.

“Say,” Sandor grinned as he began following Sansa, trying to restrain a laugh as he watched her trying to navigate the rough terrain without a set of shoes that matched in height, “You really ought to change your shoes before attempting to go any further.  It’s fairly steep down the embankment.  And a bit muddy today, thanks to the rain this morning.  Wouldn’t want the princess to dirty her pretty clothes should she fall again.”

“I’m perfectly fine,” Sansa replied smugly, holding her ginger head high, emmanating a regal air of authority on the subject matter as she glanced over her shoulder, “I can manage.  Besides, all of my shoes are packed in the bottom of one of my bags that’s in the _bottom_ of the trunk, so really, by the time I dig out another pair, I could already be – SHIT!”

And with that shout, Sansa lost her footing momentarily, almost stumbling head-first down the muddy embankment.  Thankfully, Sandor was following closely enough behind her to catch her as she pitched forward, her well-toned arms flailing about as she tried to stop herself from losing her balance.

“Woah!” Sandor laughed as he caught her as she fell forward, grasping her tightly around her waist and tugging her back firmly.  As Sansa yelped in surprise, he did not realize until she was pressed with her back against his massive chest that he was still holding on to her.  Lost momentarily in time and space as he inhaled the lemony-scented undertones of her shampoo, Sandor forgot for a split-second that this woman was a stranger.  A total stranger who had come to White Harbor on behalf of Jaime Fucking Lannister.  Releasing her like she was scalding his hands, Sandor hurriedly stepped back, unsure of where to put said hands.

“Sorry about that,” he mumbled, reaching behind his neck, scratching nervously as he tried to figure out what was making him act like a total idiot around this little bird, “I didn’t mean to, y’know…”

Apparently, the lady didn’t mind that he had just manhandled her.  “No, God, I mean…thank you.  Again,” Sansa fumbled, her pale cheeks ablaze as she turned to face him.  “You’re my hero,” she added with a smirk, tilting her head to the side as she slowly grinned at him, “My valiant knight in shining armor.”

That comment raised Sandor’s eyebrow.  “Not a knight either.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Sansa countered, watching him closely.  Her scrutiny was unnerving the shite out of him.  It felt like the girl could see into his very soul with those damn blue eyes of hers.

“We’d best be on our way,” Sandor diverted as he motioned toward his boat, “Wouldn’t want you to have to find your way back to town in the dark.”

Sansa threw her head back and laughed, “Please, no!  But I think this time I’ll let _you_ lead the way, if you don’t mind.”

“Nah, I don’t,” Sandor smirked as he watched her enjoy her little fit of merriment.  Against his better judgment, he extended his hand outward, wondering if Sansa would accept his offer to assist her.

She did.  And damn him if he didn’t even notice how goddamn cold her hand was as he wrapped his fingers around hers, their hands meshing together perfectly.

“You know, now that I think about it, I’ve never been on a boat of any kind,” Sansa stated bluntly as she held Sandor’s hand so tight it felt like she was trying to pinch it off his wrist, carefully following him as he began to walk down the pathway, “I mean, I’ve always lived in the city.  And as a kid, my family always went snow skiing on vacation.  _Not_ boating.  Oh, wow, you know, I wasn’t thinking about any of this when I agreed to get on your boat.  I mean, what if I get sick?”

“You’ll be fine, girl,” Sandor snickered as he thought about how the whole entire fiasco had played out since he had walked into Thoros’s diner.  That would be just be the icing on the proverbial cake, now wouldn’t it?  “The water’s calm today.  And I only asked you here for coffee.  Won’t be long.  Now, come along.”  They had just managed to descend a few feet when Sansa’s broken shoe slid slightly on the slippery surface of the earth beneath their feet.  Freezing in her tracks, she immediately halted, surveying the lack of a heel on her shoe instead of forging onward toward Sandor’s boat.

“You know what, I don’t think that I can make it down that embankment after all,” she started, her pretty face falling with dejection, “You were right.  It’s pretty steep.  And my shoe, is, well…it’s not in good shape, obviously.”  For good measure, she stuck out her broken heel to show him, worrying her bottom lip as she glanced up to meet his puzzled stare.

Sandor swallowed hard as he watched her engage in that little nervous habit of hers.  He could feel a twinge smoldering way down deep in his gut, the beginning of that still-familiar yet typically ignored urge he had learned to beat down with each and every passing year alone.  Good Lord.  He was losing his fucking mind for sure.

Trying to regain control of his errant thoughts, Sandor opted instead to make a show of his feigned annoyance, rolling his eyes, reaching down to put his free hand on his hip.  “Does the little maiden need to be rescued yet again?” he scoffed, hoping that if he baited her enough, maybe he’d piss her off so she’d choose to leave, telling him to sod off right before hauling her pert little ass back to her car to head back to Westeros.  “Shall I carry your highness to the boat, then, since it’s too much of a bother for you to change your footwear?”

Sansa’s eyebrows knitted together, her whole face turning an interesting shade of pink, “No!  That’s not what I meant!  I mean, I know that you _could_ carry me, because you look like you’re really fit.  Like, really, _really_ fit.”  With that impromptu evaluation escaping her lips, Sandor’s confused gray eyes widened in shock as Sansa’s eyes swiftly raked over his massive form.  As her barely hooded eyes darted up to his face, he could tell where her brain was at present.  He’d been ogled enough in his former existence to know _that_ look a mile away.  Sansa had looked at him with obvious appreciation.

Refusing to acknowledge her peaked curiosity, Sandor chose to remain aloof, feigning complete indifference, simply staring at her without making a sound as he watched Sansa begin to realize her faux pas.

“Y’know, the more that I think about it, you’re right,” Sansa sputtered, looking down at her hand still ensconced in his as she fumbled with what to say next, “Maybe I should hobble back up to the car and try to find some shoes, because, seriously, you don’t me to fall again, and I know I don’t want to fall again, because that would really be bad if I fell -”

“Fuck me, do you always chirp away this much?” Sandor sniffed, jerking her suddenly toward him, swiftly scooping her up into his strong arms before he could rethink it through, throwing her over his left shoulder, and unceremoniously marching down the embankment toward his boat.  He could not, however, conceal his laughter when Sansa shrieked in surprise at the whole affair.

“Put me down!”  she half-heartedly demanded, smacking his expansive back with her smooth, well-manicured hands.  “I can walk just fine on my own!”

“Wouldn’t want you to fall, now would we, princess?” Sandor chuckled, delighting in hearing the slight hitch in her throat when he grasped her thighs to reposition her slightly on his shoulder.  If only he could catch a glimpse of her face right about now.

“You’re serious?” Sansa stated flatly, a noticeably sarcastic yet slightly amused tone in her voice, “You’re really going to carry me?”

“Yup,” Sandor replied, popping the ‘p’ with a little extra umph.  He knew he shouldn’t be handling her right now.  He definitely did not need to be touching this young woman at all.  At.  All.  But he wanted to touch her.  He wanted to hold her.  And damn it to the seven hells, he was enjoying her company.  Yes, folks, it was official.  Sandor Clegane was interested.

_Fuck.  Fucking, fuckitty…just…fuck._

When he reached the bottom of the hill, Sandor slowly lowered Sansa to her feet onto the ground.  Feeling her toned body slowly slide down his felt downright intoxicating.  And yet again, Sandor found his hands resting on her hips as the beautiful woman raised her hands to rest on his chest.

“Thanks,” she all but whispered, gazing up into his stormy gray eyes.

“For what?” he rasped, pretending not to notice the virtually tangible sparks emanating from their points of contact.  Sandor could feel his head floating in a cloudy daze as he tried to regain his composure before he did something even more impossibly stupid right now.  Jesus, he’d already committed more stupid acts in less than an hour than he had in the last several years.

“For…letting me come to your home,” Sansa replied carefully.  He could feel the heat radiating off her now, she was pressed that closely to his body.

“Don’t thank me till you see it, girl,” he said quietly, smiling down at her, allowing himself just a brief moment to pretend that he was some average looking bloke with an average existence who could have a normal relationship with a woman.  It had been decades since that were true.  When fame and fortune consumed Sandor’s life, he lost the ability to have a normal relationship.  After the accident, his fate was sealed.  And fuck, it had been so long since he’d even bothered with women that he had just about forgotten what a normal relationship looked like.  Living a lifetime of dealing with the fact that women only saw him for whom they thought he was, not for whom he actually was, had prevented him from trusting his heart.

As the years passed while drowning in the swirling whirlpool of the rock and roll lifestyle, Sandor had been conditioned to believe that women only wanted to be bedded by _The_ Sandor Clegane, legendary rock and roll guitar god and millionaire.  They weren’t interested in falling in love with _just_ Sandor, the introverted, working-class kid from the wrong side of the tracks.  Women wanted to be seen hanging on his arm long enough to get a piece of his fame and fortune.  And since going off the grid, now women only wanted him so they could resurrect him from his walking grave long enough to try to cash in on his notoriety.  No woman would ever seriously want to try to get to know him now that he had become nothing more than a former music industry commodity turned disfigured, broken man.

For a few brief seconds as Sandor lost himself once again to his wayward thoughts, the two of them remained locked in place.  Staring at each other, their eyes searching for something, perhaps some unspoken declaration of what was happening between them, Sandor allowed himself for the first time in years to actually wonder what life might be like if he permitted someone inside not only his boat but inside his heart.

“Are you going to invite me on board?” Sansa finally spoke, teasing him more than asking him.  “You did promise to take care of me.”  Sansa’s hands moved as if she were brushing some imaginary fuzz off his broad shoulders.

“That I did,” Sandor answered, suddenly letting go of her as if he were burned, taking a long step backward.  He had to reign it in.  He had to reign it in right.  Now.  He was acting like a fool.  An oversized, lonely old fool.  This young girl had come here to woo him back and to get him to sign on for a reunion with the band.  That was all.  Nothing more.  Sandor was blowing all of this touchy-feely shite so fucking out of proportion to reality, it was comical.  Surely when alone tonight after he rid himself of the infernally perky little bird, Sandor would have himself a good laugh about the whole absurd, pathetic event. 

And so, without another word, Sandor spun quickly on his heels, whipping out his keys to unlock the chain link gate guarding entrance to the dock.  Pushing the gate open, Sandor stomped onward without looking back at Sansa.  His brain was racing as he boarded his boat, holding on with one hand while stepping over the small gap between the side of his ketch and the dock.  Silently he turned, offering his hand to Sansa to assist her onboard.

Damn her if she did not look radiant with the sun’s afternoon rays shining through her waist-length fiery mane as she sauntered toward him, her azure eyes alight with mischief as she approached the stern.  Taking his hand in hers, Sansa quietly stared up into his scarred visage, her eyes slowly dancing across his face before they locked with his.  Still she showed not one single ounce of revulsion.  Still holding his large hand in hers, Sansa quirked her lips into a barely-noticeable grin, nodding slightly, tacitly giving Sandor permission to assist her once again.  In silence, he assisted Sansa over the edge, grasping her under her arms at the sides of her chest, his thumbs mere inches from her breasts.  Sandor could feel her breathing intensify in the few seconds it took him to bring her on board.

“I could use a drink,” Sandor muttered to himself more than her as he removed his hands from her body, reaching instead to rub his beard and neck with his right hand.  The whole day seemed surreal.  “Too bad I gave it up.”

“Coffee, then,” she replied softly, her voice slightly breathless as she wound Sandor’s jacket impossibly tight around her lithe frame.  “You ready?”

_No.  No, I’m not.  I’m not ready for this.  Not.  At.  All._

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Sandor grumbled as he fumbled with his keys, unlocking the double doors to his cabin before jerking them open roughly, motioning for Sansa to enter his private quarters.  He watched as Sansa peered inside the boat, intensely scrutinizing his residence.

Sansa didn’t move.  She actually froze in place, her eyes hurriedly darting up to his.  For the first time since meeting her, Sandor could smell the hesitation wafting from her.  Was she scared of him all of a sudden?  How appropo.

“What?  Having second thoughts?” Sandor chuckled as he raised his one eyebrow in challenge.

“Second thoughts?” Sansa wondered aloud, apparently unsure of the hidden meaning inside his words.

“Afraid I’m an axe murderer, are we?” he challenged, enjoying the way her blue eyes widened impossibly large, “Wondering if I have any bodies hidden inside?”

“No!” Sansa all but shouted, huffing in either irritation or embarrassment at his accusation, he wasn’t sure which, “Of course not!”

“Well, you should be,” Sandor chastised her as he began to slowly close the door, “You don’t know me from Adam.  I could have ten bodies stuffed inside my hold for all you know.”

Sansa’s lips pursed together as she thought long and hard about what Sandor had said.  “Yeah, you’re probably right.  Maybe I should be scared to be all the way out here by myself since I don’t really know you.”  Before Sandor had a chance to blink, Sansa added, “But I’m not.  I _feel_ like I know you.  You don’t scare me, Sandor Clegane.”

_Well, fuck._

That sure as hell took the wind right out of his sails.

Sansa smiled as she motioned for him to open up the door further to let her enter, an action that brought a slight grin to his scarred lips.  “I’m just wondering how the two of us are going to fit together down there,” Sansa commented as she peered inside once again, “It looks pretty tight.”

Oh, but the fun Sandor could have with _that_ little nugget.

_Don’t.  Just don’t._

“I think we’ll fit just fine together,” Sandor chuckled as he helped Sansa begin her climb down the ladder, “And would you take off those damn shoes already?  They’re a fucking hazard.”

“Aye-aye, captain!” Sansa saluted briskly as she descended down to the hold.

 _Jesus, you’ve gone and done it now,_ Sandor thought to himself as resisted the urge to smile at her overture, climbing down after Sana, wondering how in the hell the rest of the evening would go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Rock'n roll might not solve your problems, but it does let you dance all over them." - Pete Townsend
> 
> And by the way, I recently joined the Dark Side. You can find me over on Tumblir now, @mynameisnoneya1991. God help me, I have no idea what I'm doing on that thing, but I'm there regardless!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ensconced in the warmth of Sandor's boat, Sansa desperately tries to act like the consummate professional woman that she is. Unfortunately, all of those years spent fangirling over the aging rock star are making it difficult for Sansa to focus on being, well, professional. It also isn't helping matters that Sansa is bumfuzzled by the sexual tension sparking between Sandor and herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tension between Sansa and Sandor continues to rise. How long will she be able to resist the urge to test the waters?

If someone would have told Sansa Stark a mere 24 hours ago that she would manage to not only track down the elusive Sandor Clegane in record speed but also that she would receive an invitation to hang out with him on his boat, Sansa would have told that certain someone that they were absolutely, without a shadow of a doubt, certifiably insane.

Yet against all odds, that was exactly what had happened.

Once safely onboard and huddled down below in the warmth of his cabin, Sansa immediately scanned her surroundings.  After a brief assessment of Sandor’s floating man-cave, she found herself feeling slightly giddy.  _I’m on his boat!  I’m on his freaking boat, for Christ’s sake!_ Almost as if Sandor could read her mind, he cleared his throat, drawing her attention back to him.  Wordlessly, he offered Sansa a seat, extending his arm rather gallantly toward the built-in benches next to the kitchen, barely smirking at her as he watched her swallow hard and flush ever-so-slightly.

Determined to pull her shit together and act like the professional woman she was, Sansa put on her best regal airs, attempting to act indifferent while she removed Sandor’s soft, brown leather coat, handing it over to Sandor who stood silently, watching her intently the entire time.  Still without any comment, Sandor reached for his jacket.

Accidentally, however, their fingers touched.

What should have been an innocuous, accidental bump instead ignited a burning sensation deep inside Sansa’s gut.  Worrying her bottom lip as she was apt to do when nervous, Sansa lowered her eyes momentarily before lifting them to meet Sandor’s perplexed stare, feeling the warmth spreading like wildfire throughout her form as Sandor simply stood there, locked in place, allowing his hand to linger there with hers for what felt like the most delicious six seconds of her entire life.

Before Sansa could figure out what to say or to do next, Sandor abruptly jerked his hand from hers and pulled back, taking his coat along with him.  Turning his back toward her, Sandor roughly tossed his coat onto one of the two built-in wooden benches situated in what appeared to be the main living space of his boat.  He then proceeded to yank off his watch cap and scarf, pitching them carelessly onto the kitchen counter with his keys.

Feeling slightly calmer now that Sandor had put some much-needed space between them, Sansa couldn’t help herself.  She giggled slightly when she noticed his key fob, a worn-out, oversized piece of cork.  Sandor, who had already entered his kitchen area to begin the process of making good on his promise to provide her with coffee, turned to face her.  He looked slightly puzzled at Sansa’s unanticipated bought of merriment, his forehead creased momentarily as he tried to assess exactly what he did that was so damn comical.

“Your keys,” Sansa smiled as she pointed to the kitchen counter where they rested, “Why on earth do you have that enormous wine cork dangling on the end of them?”

That seemingly valid question earned her an amused snort and an eyeroll.

“That’s not a wine cork, girl,” Sandor replied with a grin as he measured out the coffee granules into the French press that he had unearthed from the depths of one of his kitchen cabinets, “It’s a boater’s key chain.  It’s to keep my keys afloat should I drop them in the water.”

Now it was Sansa’s turn to offer a show of amusement, her well-groomed ginger eyebrow raising in challenge.

“You do that often?” she chided, smirking at him as he boiled the water in a pot on the stove.

“You have no idea,” he actually laughed in return, shaking his head as he began to dig around a different cabinet next to the stove top for a couple of coffee mugs.

Her curious blue eyes narrowed as she scrutinized his key chain further.  The cork key fob just seemed unnecessarily oversized to do its job.  “That thing is huge,” Sansa commented innocently as she sat perched on the built-in bench diagonally situated from where Sandor stood in his kitchen.  “Don’t you ever get tired of walking around with something that big stuffed into your pants?”

Before Sansa could finish her unintended double-entendre, Sandor’s head whipped around suddenly, his gray eyes widening for a split-second as he looked over his shoulder at her, scrutinizing her countenance as if he were trying to decipher an ancient hieroglyph.  The intensity level of his gaze simultaneously sent a shockwave of warmth both to Sansa’s face and to her nether region.

And then he replied.

“We are still talking about the key chain, right?” Sandor quipped, raising his own eyebrow as he spun on his heels, folding his long arms in front of his chest, leaning slightly against the kitchen counter as he stared directly at her.

_Wait, what?  Oh…oh, God!_

Sansa absolutely had walked right into that horrifying little innuendo.

“Of course, I am!” she protested profusely, rolling her eyes at him defensively as her hand self-consciously darted upward, nervously carding it through her ginger locks.  “What else would I be talking about?”  She could already feel the tell-tale signs of mortification creeping in.  At this rate, Sansa’s pale cheeks just might wind up glowing in the dark if she had to endure another round of embarrassment like this last one.

“You tell me,” Sandor chuckled as he pushed off the counter, effectively dismissing her while returning his attention to his work at hand in the kitchen.

“Really?” Sansa huffed at his massive back.

“You started it,” Sandor taunted, still not looking at her yet grinning mischievously as he busied himself in his kitchen area.

“Get your mind out of the gutter,” Sansa demanded with a slight air of feigned haughtiness.  Sure, she secretly still might want to climb the ginormous, furry guitarist like a tree on any given day of the week, but she was _not_ about to let him in on that nugget of intel.

“'Rock star,' remember?” Sandor fired back sarcastically, this time cocking his head to the side and glancing her direction just long enough to catch her eye, “Aren't we supposed to have our minds in the gutter?”

When her sky-blue eyes met his, Sansa released a deep breath.  She could see that Sandor was teasing her royally.  And as Sandor shot her a playful wink, affirming her suspicion that he was having a bit of sport at her expense, Sansa felt her heart begin to pound inside her chest.  The man not only was one of the greatest guitar players to have ever lived, but he was also pretty damn funny, too.

Even though Sansa could feel the flush blazing across her countenance, an oddly comfortable silence ensued between the two strangers as Sansa studied Sandor while he flitted about his workspace, humming to himself as he prepared their late-afternoon caffeine fix.  No longer under Sandor’s direct scrutiny, Sansa took the opportunity to survey her surroundings in further detail.

The built-in wooden benches, upon one of which Sansa sat, were next to the kitchen where Sandor was located.  To her left was a small wooden desk, haphazardly littered with various maps and writing tools.  Hanging on the walls surrounding the built-in desk were sundry electronic gizmos that Sansa assumed Sandor must use for sailing.  _That must be where he does his navigational stuff,_ Sansa smiled as she pondered how long it must have taken him to figure out how to use all of the contraptions scattered about his work space.  Looking past the drafts table and further into the boat, Sansa could see a narrow door which appeared to lead to a room.  Glancing to her right, she saw a couple more doors, one to a seemingly narrow space and one at the very end of the boat.

All in all, Sansa had to admit it; the living area of Sandor’s boat was phenomenally roomier than she had expected when she had first peered inside the hold.  Shifting her gaze toward the enormous guitarist, who was now in the final stages of making their coffee, Sansa cracked a smile as she imagined Sandor living on his boat, sailing the open seas, travelling around the world while dodging the headaches of his past fame.  Even though the quarters here on board were small by a house’s dimensions, she would bet her next paycheck that Sandor’s total living space was actually larger than the studio flat she had rented while a college student.

While Sandor poured the piping hot java into two mugs that he had unearthed from his cabinet, Sansa’s typically overzealous imagination reared its ugly head.  With her eyes focused on the largest of the doors leading to places she had not been invited, Sansa willingly went down the rabbit hole:  _I wonder which of these doors goes to his bedroom.  Does he sleep in an actual bed, or does he have a hammock like sailors do in those BBC period pieces?  How would he even fit a bed in here to accommodate a man of his size?  And speaking of size…_

“How do you want it?” Sansa heard Sandor inquire, interrupting her soon-to-be raunchy little bit of reverie.

“Huh?” Sansa gasped loudly, realizing that Sandor was standing directly in front of her now, his massive hands resting on his hips.  Once again, a self-conscious flush overtook Sansa’s countenance as she looked up into his seemingly perpetually amused gray eyes.

Sandor’s dark eyebrow quirked in apparent challenge, “I asked you: how do you want it?”

“Want it…” Sansa all but whispered as a sudden flash of a completely naked Sandor kneeling before her with his head stuffed between her legs unexpectedly overtook her already frazzled brainwaves.

“Your coffee,” he continued as straight-faced as possible, failing miserably to mask any signs that he was enjoying Sansa’s inability to keep her own damn mind out of the gutter.  “How do you take it?”

“Coffee!  Right!” Sansa tittered anxiously, nodding her head for no good reason as she straightened her back in her seat, hoping like hell that she would reel in her immature, school-girl idiocy for once today, “Cream and sugar.  If you have it, please.”  Right here, right now, all she could think about now was how damn stupid she must sound to Sandor.  Sporting an over-the-top fake grin, Sansa internally wished to all the gods both known and unknown that she could crawl into the tiny slip of space between the bench and the wall to hide for all eternity.

“Cream and sugar it is then,” Sandor said without further comment.  Much to Sansa’s relief, he merely turned toward the kitchen, fiddling with their coffee like nothing had happened at all.

Sansa was desperate to get a handle on the situation at present.  She needed to quit acting like a loser (a horny loser at that) and start behaving like the professional, grown-ass woman she was.  How in the world would she ever convince Sandor to take her seriously, let alone actually consider her sales pitch, if she wasn’t able to act like an adult?

Preparing her own cup of coffee seemed like just the ticket to solve Sansa’s dilemma.

“Here!  Let me help!” she cheerfully chirped, bounding to her feet and scampering into the small kitchen area of the boat. 

Unfortunately for Sansa, her attempt to regain her composure would have been successful if she had bothered to think her plan through before attempting to wedge herself in the microscopic space between Sandor’s hip and the bar separating the seating area from his kitchen.  Just as Sansa reached for her mug to begin turning the hot coffee into a liquid candy bar, Sandor turned around abruptly, most likely because she was all up in his personal space without just cause. 

And of course, the minute he turned around to see why in the hell she was suddenly _thisclose_ to him, they wound up chest to chest, their bodies pressed snugly against each other.

Nope.  This was _definitely_ not helping her whole mind floating along in the gutter motif.

“Sorry,” Sandor rasped as he looked straight down into her visage, “I didn’t realize that you were -”

“No, no!  It’s my fault!” she choked, gulping hard as she stared back at him, “I just thought that I’d, you know, help you.”

“Yeah, help,” Sandor mumbled distractedly, his gray eyes focused not on hers but on her plump lips at present.

_Holy.  Shit._

“You know what, maybe I’ll just go have a seat and let you work your magic,” Sansa blurted out in a rush of nervous tension, unconsciously wetting her lower lip with her tongue as she leaned back against the counter, feeling the press of Sandor’s body against hers still.

Sandor didn’t say anything.  Instead, his slightly hooded eyes tracked the movement of her tongue as it danced along her bottom lip.  For the briefest of seconds, Sansa wondered if he actually was thinking about kissing her.

Sansa was no fool.  The sexual tension between the two of them had been simmering slightly below the boiling point since the moment Sandor had touched her scuffed hands while they were standing outside of that shitty diner in White Harbor.  Although Sansa was painfully attracted to Sandor, she continuously had to remind herself that she was on a mission.  There was no way in hell that she could pursue anything physical with the oversized guitarist, even if she felt like he was transmitting some _very_ strong signals that he was in fact jiggy with that very concept.

Sansa Stark was a professional woman, damn it.  She had ventured all alone to White Harbor to discuss a reunion and to talk shop with her all-time favorite recording artist.  Sleeping with Sandor Clegane was _not_ an item on the buffet of options out here in the middle of Podunkville, no matter how hard Margaery had tried to convince Sansa otherwise.  Even when Margaery had insisted that Sansa stuff a three-pack of condoms into her toiletry bag as they packed Sansa’s suitcase for her trip to White Harbor, Sansa had argued that Sandor would never take her seriously if she jumped into the sack with him.  Flirting with Sandor was a terrible idea by itself, let alone falling into bed with him.

Or was it?

“Sansa?” Sandor finally spoke, his voice deeper than it had been before Sansa had attempted to squeeze between him and the counter.

Lost in her thoughts, Sansa realized she not only hadn’t returned to her seat but that she was staring directly at Sandor’s mouth.

_Fuck!_

Bursting out into a round of fake laughter, Sansa hurriedly scooched between Sandor and the counter, wiggling until she freed herself from her awkward position.  Pointing with her thumb over her shoulder as she backed up toward the bench, Sansa answered.  “Yup!  Gonna go sit down!  Sitting down as we speak!”  She all but ran toward the bench seat.  Seated once again on the built-in bench, she chanced a glance in Sandor’s direction.  His lack of any sort of smug retort left Sansa to wonder if she had overstepped an unknown boundary.  An unspoken boundary that she would absolutely love a chance to cross should the opportunity arise.

The whole moment felt surreal.  No, wait.  Try that again.  The whole damn _day_ felt entirely surreal.  What felt like only seconds ago, Sansa had been attempting to gain the confidence of that snarky man named Thoros back at the diner so she could maybe, just maybe, get a lead as to where Sandor might be.  And now, here she sat in his boat, playing a sexually charged little game of cat and mouse with the very object of her desire since her tween years.

“Your coffee, milady,” Sandor smiled at her as he approached, handing her a mug that she readily accepted, studying her closely as he took a drink out of his own.

“Thank you, Mr. Clegane,” Sansa replied sheepishly, basking in the warmth of the black ceramic mug in her freezing cold hands.

“Oi!  ‘Mr. Clegane,’ is it?” Sandor chuckled darkly as he took another quick sip before sitting the cup down on the table in front of the bench across from Sansa, “Fuck, am I really that old now, eh?”

Sansa’s mouth fell open.  Trying her best to be all professional and business-like, unlike the rest of her behavior this evening in Sandor’s presence, Sansa suddenly worried that her chance to talk to Sandor would come to a close not because of her overzealous brain, but because of her mouth that wouldn’t cooperate.  “No!  No, not at all!  I don’t think you’re old!”

Sandor sniffed as he shook his head, closing his eyes briefly before he opened them, looking down at his boots, “Ah, it’s alright, girl.  I _am_ old.  Don’t worry about it.”

Sighing heavily, Sansa decided on the spot that she was through playing patty-cake with the extreme ball of nervous, awkward energy wafting through the boat.  It didn’t matter what Sandor thought of her tonight when she left his boat and skulked back to White Harbor for the night before leaving to return to Westeros.  There was no way in hell that Sandor was going to agree to her sales-pitch about the Kingslayer reunion tour.  If she were lucky, she would get maybe an hour or so of his time at best this evening to talk about the band and their music.  Did she really want to spent that little scrap of time with him fretting about whether he could pick up on the fact that she was attracted to him?

No.  Absolutely not.

What mattered right here, right now, was that she had a once-in-a-lifetime chance to spend time with Sandor Clegane, bona fide rock star and legend.  She would just have to tell herself to get the fuck out of her own way.

“I don’t think you’re old,” Sansa began, patting the empty space on the bench seat next to her.  “I’m just being polite.”

“Such a courteous little thing you are,” Sandor taunted, his gray eyes rapidly darting between her face and the unoccupied bench seat next to her.

“I am when it suits me,” she answered saucily in return, enjoying the bark of laughter Sandor emitted at her flippant reply.  “Let’s start over, shall we?”  Sticking out her free hand, Sansa smiled so widely at him, her cheeks felt sore.  “I’m Sansa Stark.  Please call me Sansa.”

“Sandor Clegane,” he played along, lightly gripping her hand in his massive one, “You can call me Sandor.”

“Nice to meet you, Sandor,” Sansa replied as they shook hands.  Yet again, Sansa could feel a burning sensation between their melded hands.

And as his eyes trailed toward the bench where Sansa was patting the seat beside her, offering him the chance to sit next to her instead of across from her, Sandor’s mouth quirked into a devilish grin.  “Likewise,” Sandor nodded, his black hair momentarily drifting into his scarred face as he grinned, sitting down beside the tall, leggy redhead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "You can destroy your now by worrying about tomorrow." - Janis Joplin


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa's dream comes true as she spends the late afternoon on board Sandor's boat, talking shop with him about Kingslayer as well as Sandor's life and music. Surprised by his own enjoyment of his time spent with Sansa, Sandor finds himself growing more and more intrigued by the beautiful young woman sent to try to reunite him with the band. And as their time together winds down, Sansa's last question manages to break through the thick wall Sandor erected around his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although Sandor and Sansa are acutely aware of the sexual tension sparking between them, they are both still hesitant to make the first move* until Sansa's question about one of his songs gives Sandor the nudge in the right direction.
> 
> * The explicit tag won’t be fulfilled this chapter, folks, but they’re getting there, I promise!

Lost in the glory of Sansa’s sing-song voice, listening to her talk about everything and nothing all at the same time, Sandor found himself doing the unthinkable.  The absolutely least likely thing he imagined that he would ever do again, save for reunite with band.

He willingly talked about his days with Kingslayer.

With a total stranger.

A beautiful, elegant, intelligent stranger with the hair the color of the autumn sunset and eyes the color of the bluest ocean, no less.

It did not take Sandor long during the course of his conversation with Sansa for her to admit that she was virtually a life-long Kingslayer fan.  Although finding out such a nugget of information would typically have caused Sandor to erect a serious set of sky-high walls, he actually found himself enjoying her rapid-fire series of questions.  And the more questions she asked, the more Sansa confirmed just how much she already knew about both the band as well as about Sandor himself.

The girl was like a fucking Kingslayer encyclopedia.

Sitting next to Sansa as she smiled and chatted, Sandor found himself growing more and more intrigued with the young woman.  No matter how many technical questions she asked about his choice of guitar equipment or how many in-depth inquiries she made into his travels around the world, to his utter amazement, Sandor didn’t become irritated or bored.  Never known for his patience during any form of interview back in the day, he was astounded not only at how comfortable he felt in her presence but also how damn much he enjoyed talking with her.

Although time seemed to stand still as Sandor laughed and reminisced with Sansa, he finally remembered that he had asked her to come aboard for coffee _and_ for first aid.  So, during a slight lull in their conversation about Sandor’s musical influences, he suddenly hopped off the wooden bench, resting his empty coffee mug on the table, and dug out his medical kit.  Daylight was fading quickly, and Sansa would need to get back to town soon so she could rent a room at Beric’s tavern.  Sandor couldn't help but grin to himself as he jerked the bag from its storage spot.  Surely, the posh little bird would grimace once she realized there was no other lodging in town save for the sparsely furnished and rarely rented rooms above Beric’s dingy establishment.

 _She will leave soon enough,_ Sandor grumbled to himself as he approached the smiling young lass as she gazed up at him, _No sense in prolonging the inevitable.  Best to get a move on, then._

Returning to his previous spot on the bench nestled closely to Sansa, Sandor began to unzip and rifle through his supplies.  Thankfully, he was well-stocked in just about everything a bachelor on a boat needed to tend to the various scuffs and cuts a man could get while sailing all alone.

“Give me your hand,” he asked tersely, realizing that he sounded unnecessarily harsh when Sansa’s eyes widened at his words.  Damn him for outwardly showing how much she was getting under his furry skin.

Obeying his command, Sansa offered first her right hand, allowing Sandor to grasp it in his oversized one.  Even though Sansa had been in the midst of one highly entertaining and engaging conversation with the very object of her mission (not to mention her desires) just moments ago, Sandor’s proximity this go-round was starting to make her feel light-headed.  With his muscular, jeans-clad thigh brushing against hers, Sansa found herself having to concentrate on keeping her breathing at a normal pace as Sandor held her hand lightly in his, not once taking her eyes off him as he silently examined her boo-boo, his inquisitive gray eyes narrowed as he pondered what he might do next.  Sansa literally gulped when he barely traced a few circles on her palm with his thumb right before he proceeded to let go with one hand, leaning toward the hardwood floor of his boat, digging around in his medical supply bag that he had placed by his feet, rooting around for whatever supplies he thought appropriate to play doctor on her. 

Well, Sandor wasn’t _really_ about to play doctor on her, at least not in the sense that Sansa would have preferred, but beggars shan’t be choosers, yeah?

And then just as her typically overactive imagination was about to dive head-first into one first-class fantasy montage, reality smacked her right up side her ginger head, snapping her back into focus.

“Ow!  That stings!” Sansa yelped, grimacing slightly as Sandor lightly dabbed the barely-visible abrasion on the palm of her hand with a pre-moistened alcohol swab.  Instinctively, she attempted to jerk her hand away from the offending substance, but no such luck.  Sandor’s grip around her dainty wrist was like a damn vice.  “Do you even know what you’re doing?”

“It’s alcohol, girl.  It’s supposed to sting,” he replied flatly, unable to hide the slight quirk of his lips thanks to her little melodramatic display, “Perhaps you should’ve asked about my lack of medical training before you agreed to board.”  Sandor knew better than to make eye contact right now with the pretty young woman because if he did, he knew that she would see just how damn much he was enjoying her company here on his boat.  Refusing to lift his gray eyes from his task, he instead intently focused on his handiwork.  Not letting go, Sandor held onto her by her wrist with one hand, using the other to toss the used swab into the wastebasket he had commandeered from under his kitchen sink.

“You could’ve warned me,” Sansa sniffed haughtily, watching Sandor slowly release her hand, this time grasping the left one in his while surveying the minimal damage.  She knew she was completely overreacting, considering how laughably minor her scrapes actually were.  So, sue her.  Having Sandor sitting so close that she could see the highlights in his wavy black hair was starting to drive her nuts.  The longer that Sandor continued to touch her and to dote on her and to touch her and to talk to her…for the love of Pete, Sansa really needed to ratchet down the intensity level of her emotions before she did or said something incredibly forward.  Or stupid.  Or both, come to think of it.

“They really aren’t that bad, you know,” Sandor commented with a smirk and without making eye contact, once again releasing her hand long enough to grab a second alcohol swab poised on his knee.

“Can we not use that thingy and say that we did?” Sansa groaned, waving at the swab with her free hand.  Sandor didn’t reply.  Instead, he just continued about his business, grabbing the individually wrapped swab and tearing it open with his teeth.

Holy hell.  Even something as innocuous as that sent a wave of want straight to Sansa’s gut. Clearing her throat, Sansa diverted her eyes, lowering her gaze to her lap.  _How can the man not even notice how turned on you are right now?_

“Afraid not, princess.  Gotta have it,” Sandor teased as he moved in for the kill, his hand dabbing the scrape so fast, Sansa barely had to time to blink before he was already finished.

“Ugh!” Sansa hissed, gritting her teeth, narrowing her eyes as she caught him almost laughing at her little display.  “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”  And just as she was about to come up with another barrage of complaints about his lack of bedside manner, of course that was exactly when Sandor finally, _finally_ looked at her.  The borderline feral look splayed across his scarred face literally caused her to shiver.

“You have no idea,” he rasped softly, his face the picture of utter seriousness.  Lowering his head toward her palm without breaking eye contact, Sandor lightly blew on her freshly cleaned boo-boo.  The juxtaposition of the slight sting of her freshly cleaned abrasion coupled with the blast of warm air flowing from Sandor’s mouth while he stared at her just about undid Sansa right then and there.

Sensing the virtually tangible sexual tension in the air, Sandor knew that he was playing with fire, even if he had an overwhelming fear of it since the accident.  Although it had been some time since Sandor had the luxury of a woman’s company, he hadn’t forgotten the tell-tale signs of a woman’s interest.  Staring up into the pretty young lady’s eyes as he raised his head, Sandor could all but smell the pheromones percolating between them.

Years spent being chased about by horny fans had definitely helped him hone that skill to an artform.  If he were being honest with himself, Sandor had picked up on that very notion almost instantly when they first met.  Sansa may want to talk with him about a reunion with Kingslayer and his technical skills on his Gibson, but judging by the way her ample bosom was rising and falling right about now, Sandor was positive that this little bird was looking at him like she wanted to shove him onto his back and sail him into the sunset.

What Sandor could _not_ figure out, however, was exactly _why_ such an attractive young woman like Sansa would want him in the first place.  He may be a “rock and roll legend” (whatever that was worth) in the eyes of Kingslayer fans, but Sansa didn’t seem bowled over by his past fame.  He could tell that she genuinely liked him and his music.  And considering that she worked in the music business, meeting another aging, has-been guitarist couldn’t be that big of a turn-on anyway.  Guys like him were a dime a dozen in her line of work.

Was it his perceived wealth?  For fuck’s sake, that couldn’t be it.  Sansa could look around her and plainly see that he was not living in the lap of luxury.  Granted, she didn’t have access to his financial portfolio, but that was beside the point.  Living alone for too many years makes a man not bother with luxury.  Although Sandor loved his sailboat, his less-than-new, hand-me-down ketch that he’d bought off Ray years ago needed a fresh coat of paint as well as several repairs and updates.  Pair all of that with the simple fact that Sandor never really bothered to keep house all that well assuredly would not give Sansa the impression that he was loaded, even if he was.

And last but not least on the menu of options, the little bird certainly couldn’t be interested in him for his looks.  Before the accident, Sandor hadn’t been an ugly man.  Plenty of women had found him attractive enough even before the cash flow had started after Kingslayer’s rapid rise to the top.  But now?  Fuck that.  Any woman with at least one working eyeball could see the damage the car wreck had done to his countenance. 

Lost in his internal struggles, Sandor didn’t hear Sansa ask him a question, even though he was staring directly into her face.

“Hey,” Sansa chirped, patting Sandor’s thigh with her hand, tilting her head to the side as she smiled at him, her bright eyes dancing across his face.

“Hmm?” Sandor startled, blinkingly rapidly to reign in his train of thought.  “What did you say?”  He realized then that he was still holding her hand.  _This has to stop,_ he chastised himself.  The way Sansa looked deeply into his eyes, the way she smiled at him, the way she genuinely laughed when he joked with her…it was too good to believe.  Sandor knew that the pretty little bird wanted him, scars and all.  The question for Sandor was, what was he going to do about it?  Sandor all but dropped her hand into her lap as he jerked his hands away from her.

“I said thanks for a wonderful afternoon,” a noticeably flushed Sansa said softly, turning to grab her empty coffee mug from its location next to her on the wooden built-in bench, “I’ve had a fabulous time getting to know you, Sandor.”

“Me too,” Sandor replied as he quickly glanced at his watch, suddenly realizing that Sansa had been on board his boat almost two entire hours.  Where in the fuck did the time go?  Between answering her litany of questions about his music and his life with Kingslayer, Sandor had completely lost track of time.

Taking her statement about enjoying the afternoon as her segway to depart, Sandor hurriedly grabbed his medical kit.  He rose from his seat, returning the bag to its previous location in storage.  Turning once again to face Sansa, he grabbed his empty coffee mug off the table, motioning for Sansa to hand him her empty cup.  Pulling his bottom lip under the top row of his teeth as his steely eyes danced across her curious countenance, Sandor reached to take her cup from her hand.

When their fingers touched, Sansa froze in place.  She could feel the heat radiating off Sandor while she sat there under his intense scrutiny.  Sansa felt her cheeks flushing even more impossibly red as her thoughts began to race a mile a minute.  From the moment that she had shimmied down the ladder into his home on the water, Sansa stumbled into a giddy euphoria like she had never felt before now.   Oh, she had fantasized plenty over the years about what she would like to do to Sandor _._ However, in all of her years spent as a die-hard Kingslayer fan, not once in any of Sansa’s daydreams about what it would be like to actually meet the elusive guitarist in person had she ever envisioned that the man would appear to be attracted to _her._ Damn her if the way that Sandor was looking at her right now didn’t send a sudden surge of want straight to her core.

“It’s getting dark out, y’know,” Sandor hesitated, breaking the spell, glancing down at their connected hands before locking eyes with the beautiful young lady once again, “You should probably head out soon.”

“Yeah…I probably should,” Sansa finally managed to speak as Sandor spun on his heels and walked into the galley to wash their mugs.  Taking a steadying breath as the thought of walking away without really discussing the possibility of a Kingslayer reunion weighing on her shoulders, Sansa sighed deeply.  By the way he had artfully dodged her attempts to bring up that very subject during the course of their time together, she knew that Sandor would have never agreed to the scheme anyway.

And tomorrow, when Sansa made the arduous journey back to Westeros and arrived at the record label empty-handed, she would have to endure the fact that she had let down both Jaime and Tyrion as well as handed her own ass to Cersei on a silver platter.

“Sandor, would it be alright if I asked you just one more question?” Sansa asked, chewing her bottom lip.

“Shoot,” he answered without looking at her, now drying the mugs and returning them to their previous storage location.

“Your song, ‘The Rains of Castamere.’  It’s always been one of my absolute favorites…” she began cautiously, unsure of whether Sandor would actually share his inner most thoughts about his songs, not just the vagaries of talking shop about technical stuff.

“Yeah?” Sandor replied, finally finished with his task.  He walked toward her slowly, watching her closely.

“Well,” she continued, scooting over slightly as Sandor sat next to her once again on the wooden bench.  “I was wondering why you really wrote it.”

Sandor pondered her question silently for a few moments before leaning back and replying dryly, “Why I _really_ wrote it?

“Yeah, why you ‘really’ wrote it,” Sansa replied with a smirk, making air quotes as part of her reply.

Sandor sniffed at that statement.  Brushing aside the black hair dangling in his face, he thought about how he wanted to answer before he spoke.  He opted to tell her the truth, albeit only a partial truth.

“I wrote that on a tour bus while parked outside a club after a gig.  The guys were hanging out, killing time until we left.  Me, I was holed up on my bunk, trying to be alone for five fucking minutes, and the song kind of just flowed from there.  That’s it.  Not much of a story, eh?”

Her face morphing into complete seriousness, Sansa pressed onward, “That’s not what I meant.”

“What did you mean, then?”

“I want to know what the lyrics to the song mean, that’s what I mean.”

“There is no meaning.”

“Of course, there is!”

“Does every song ever written have to have some deep, dark meaning?”

“No, but this one does,” Sansa smiled, leaning sideways to bump shoulders with Sandor.  “I’ve studied it for years.  I know you’re holding back on me.”

“You really should have found yourself a hobby,” Sandor snarked, snorting in amusement at his own joke, “Stamp collecting or macramé maybe.”

“Would you be serious for even a second?” Sansa giggled, rolling her eyes at him.

“Alright, I’ll be serious,” Sandor smiled, reveling in the way Sansa’s eyes seemed a deeper hue of blue as they talked.

“You once told a reporter in an interview you gave with _Rolling Stone_ after you released _Iron Throne_ that the song is based on an old fairy tale you remembered hearing as a kid.”

Sandor snorted in disbelief, shaking his head as he responded, “How in the hell do you remember all of this stuff?”

“Call me curious,” Sansa grinned in return.

Sandor couldn’t remember any such interview.  But then, there were numerous pockets of time that he couldn’t recall, thanks to the alcohol.  “Well, I don’t remember that particular interview.  Probably too damn drunk, I suppose.”

“Well, is it?” Sansa pushed, “Is the song really just a retelling of some fairy tale?”

Sandor narrowed his gray eyes at her as he processed Sansa’s request.  For the life of him, Sandor couldn’t fathom why this young girl who could virtually be his daughter was so damn interested in a song that he had written while she was probably barely old enough to go to school.  “The Rains of Castamere” had been a phenomenal success for Kingslayer, staying on the charts for months.  It was still one of the songs that Sandor heard on the airwaves when he felt the urge to listen to something on the radio.  And although Sandor couldn’t remember the actual interview Sansa was referencing, he did recall how many fucking times he’d been asked about the origins of that song.  Music critics had called it “hauntingly beautiful,” “painfully erotic” or other various forms of high-brow bullshite.  The fact of the matter was, even Jorah, who had helped compose the music to accompany Sandor’s lyrics, didn’t know the truth behind the song’s origin.  No one did.

Unconsciously, his large hand raised to stroke his bearded cheek as he replied, “What makes you think that the song isn’t just that?  A fairy tale?”

“Because I’m not buying it,” Sansa admitted as she cocked her head to the side, gazing upon him as she leaned all the way forward now, her forearms resting on her thighs.

“Is that so?” Sandor countered, folding his arms in an unconscious defensive move in front of his massive chest.  “You really think that the song has some hidden meaning?  Let me guess.  You’ve played the track backward to see if you hear some satanic references or something.”

“Of course not!” Sansa laughed, rolling her blue eyes at him yet again, “I did _not_ do that.  And that’s not what I mean!”

“Spit it out, then,” Sandor retorted, still holding his guarded position as he questioned her in return, “Let’s hear what you think the song is really about.”

Pausing before she answered, Sansa took a slow, deep breath.  “Well, for the longest time, I thought it was a love song.  A song written for some long-lost lover.”

That assessment caused Sandor’s one eyebrow to cock in defiance.  “Afraid not.”  Sandor had his fair share of female companionship during the band’s heyday, but nothing that anyone would ever think to label as love.

“Hear me out,” Sansa continued, holding one hand up in her defense, “I didn’t say that I think that now.  I _used_ to think that.”

“And now?” Sandor snarked, slightly amused at Sansa’s determination to try to guess the origin of his song.

“And now…I think it’s about…you.  And the band.”

Sandor suddenly felt like Sansa had smacked him in the gut with a baseball bat.

_How in the fuck…how could she know?_

Almost as if he were transported back in time, Sandor felt like he was twenty years old again, sitting on the tour bus after one particularly rowdy late-night gig over in Pykeville.  He was hunched over his ratty old spiral-bound notebook as he sat on his bunk bed, feverishly scribbling out the lyrics, trying to tune out the chaos echoing throughout the bus.  Sandor could hear Bronn’s boisterous voice up in the front, laughing and joking while playing cards with some of the crew members, the lot of them getting high on weed.  He could hear Jorah’s gravelly voice floating down the corridor, softly singing one of his favorite Tom Waits songs, his nimble fingers gliding across the strings of his well-loved acoustic Yamaha.  Sandor also could hear the less than savory sounds resonating from the back of the tour bus, Jaime’s moans and vapid praises wafting in the air as some nameless groupie was going down on him, apparently with a fair amount of gusto.

On that particular night before their gig had started, Sandor had signed over his soul to Jaime’s father, Tywin.  Under pressure from Bronn and Jaime, Sandor had agreed to allow the old bastard to assume command of the band as its manager.  Even Jorah, who initially had shared Sandor’s apprehension, now thought it was a good idea.  Why shouldn’t he?  Tywin Lannister had promised them untold fame and fortune if they would just sign on the dotted line.  No more struggles.  No more praying for enough income to pay the light bill.  Between the band’s talents and Tywin’s management prowess, so the old lion had claimed, Kingslayer would be nothing short of the biggest ticket to hit the hard rock music scene within the last decade.

The song was a fairy tale indeed.  Sandor’s drunk of a father was dead.  Gregor and his thieving, drug addicted ass was back in jail, as usual.  Bronn and Jorah were the closest thing to a family that Sandor ever had.  Jaime too, even, when he wasn’t being an arrogant prick.  And now, trying to find a scrap of privacy on the noisy, crowded bus, Sandor knew that the band, who had bonded intensely over the last several months while touring heavily, stood poised on the very precipice of success.  Yet, instead of feeling a sense of excitement like the other band members did, all Sandor could think about was at what cost would their success come.

And so, in less than fifteen minutes, Sandor wrote the lyrics to “The Rains of Castamere” as his way of forever remembering that single moment in time.  That last moment when Sandor didn’t owe anyone anything.  The last few minutes when he was in charge of his own fate right before relinquishing his freedom.  Sitting alone in the sleeping area of the bus, Sandor penned that song as an ode to the loss of his innocence.

Drowning deep within the well of his self-reflection, Sandor barely heard Sansa speak.

“Sandor?” Sansa asked quietly, not sure if she had overstepped an unspoken boundary with the massive man.

“You’re quite perceptive,” Sandor all but whispered, feeling a bit overwhelmed with the sudden surge of emotion washing over him.  A lone tear dared to form in the corner of Sandor’s eye before he could stop himself.

“Hey, are you OK?” Sansa fretted, the concern obvious in her worried blue eyes as Sandor choked back his emotions.  Without another word, she reached out to Sandor, gently cupping his scarred face in her hands.  She knew that she must have crossed a line with him by asking about the song, and here she dared to cross another one.  But she didn’t give a damn.  Right here, right now, whatever was going on inside of Sandor, she wanted to let him know that she would listen.

That she would listen to his story.

That she wanted to listen to his story.

That she wanted to listen to his story and wanted to stay with him as long as he would let her.

In that moment, unable to not lean into her heartfelt touch, Sandor felt an amazing, unprecedented, and extremely surprising connection to the beautiful woman sitting next to him.  Telling his fear of rejection to shut the fuck up for once, he chose to do something even more unimaginable than allowing the redhead on board today.

“Would you like to stay for dinner?” Sandor blurted out before he could rethink his words, bracing himself for her reply.

Sansa’s eyes widened at the unexpected turn of events, softening almost instantly as she gave Sandor a tiny wisp of a smile.  “Yeah.  Yeah, I would.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "What I have to say is all in the music. If I want to say anything, I write a song." - Paul McCartney


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Although both Sandor and Sansa have fears and doubts about what the future may hold, for tonight at least, they will allow themselves to explore their feelings for one another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter will finally earn this work the rating of "explicit." I hope you enjoy this fairly lengthy, full-of-feels update!

Watching the fiery hues of orange streaking across the darkening sky, Sandor stood alone on deck, desperately trying to get a handle on his errant emotions.  From the moment that Sansa had called Sandor out on his shite, effortlessly deciphering the hidden meaning behind a song that he had composed ages ago, something in the dynamic between the two of them had changed.  Yeah, sure, there had been some rather obvious sexual tension sparking between the two of them since he had held her hand outside of Thoros’s diner.  But now…now the tension felt like a raging inferno that was about to consume him.  And damn him straight to hell if he wasn’t well-versed on how that actually felt.

As Sandor leaned over the railing, listening to the slight waves lapping in chorus against the hull, Sandor shivered slightly while standing in the crisp, cold air.  He lifted his gray eyes, surveying the blackening late evening horizon.  Since the accident, he had done nothing but run.  Run from the band…run from the press…run from his nightmares…run, run, run.  Honestly, Sandor never imagined that he would ever _want_ to stop running from everyone and everything.

Yet now he did.

Jesus, he had been alone for so long, the idea of trusting someone was virtually a foreign concept to Sandor.  Never one to trust people easily even before fame had struck, life in the spotlight had all but shriveled up Sandor’s ability to believe a woman wanted him for who he really was.  Yet after only a few hours in Sansa’s company, Sandor had somehow managed to feel an unparalleled connection to the exquisite young lady currently trying to cook dinner in his galley.  Sansa may have come here to try to talk him into joining Kingslayer once again, but she sincerely liked him.  She respected him both as an artist and as a human being.  Her curiosity was intoxicating and her laugh was contagious.  She was the most mesmerizing creature that Sandor had ever seen.

And now, as Sandor closed his eyes, taking a deep, steadying breath to steel his nerves, he finally made peace with his desire to see just how far that Sansa really wanted to take things with him tonight.

While Sandor wrestled with his feelings, Sansa remained in the hold, standing at the counter of the galley while trying to figure out what she would prepare for tonight’s dinner.  Mulling over her options, she rifled through the assorted canned goods and nonperishable items that Sandor had unearthed from storage both under one of the wooden benches he had called the “starboard settee” and from some baskets in the “port cubby.”  She couldn’t help but grin when thinking about how the former rock star had morphed into a sailor.  Sandor truly seemed just as at ease with living on a boat as he had back in the day when he lived on stage.

Still unsure what to prepare, Sansa reached up to scratch her head.  How she wished that her cellular service worked right now so she could Google some recipe ideas.  She had checked her phone as soon as Sandor had climbed up the ladder, and to her dismay, she didn’t even have one bar of reception.  Apparently, she really was in the middle of nowhere out here on Sandor’s boat.

Finally settling on a simple soup and leftover French bread that she snagged from his “cubby,” Sansa let her thoughts wander while humming “The Rains of Castamere.”  She couldn’t help herself, really.  She felt so incredibly giddy.  Sandor willingly told her the truth behind his song.  He also had allowed her to see him when vulnerable.  The way that he had leaned into her touch after he had choked up, his piercing gray eyes softening while he stared at her told Sansa all that she needed to know.

She had gotten under his skin.

Right then and there, the humungous guitarist could have told her to leave.  Sandor could have kicked her off his boat, could have shooed her to her rental car, and could have rid himself of Sansa and the entire issue of a Kingslayer reunion for the rest of his natural born days.  Instead, Sandor had wanted her to stay.  Sansa knew in her gut that she could get a whole lot more than dinner out of Sandor if she so desired.

To be perfectly honest, Sansa desired.  She desired _plenty_.  And why not?  Sandor was attracted to her, too.  There was no trying to deny it any longer.  There was something downright exhilarating in the knowledge that her long-time fangirl crush wanted her on a physical level, probably just as much as she wanted him.  The question was, what was Sansa going to do with said knowledge?

Before Sansa had a chance to chase that glorious white rabbit down the hole, her bourgeoning lustful thoughts were interrupted by the sounds of heavy footsteps echoing throughout the boat as Sandor hurriedly climbed down the steep ladder.

“So, what are we having?” Sandor inquired, spinning on his heels and sauntering toward Sansa.  When the exquisite redhead looked at him over her shoulder, the mischievous look dancing across her pale features made the gruff guitarist’s breath catch.  She truly was excruciatingly beautiful.

“Well…” Sansa’s voice trailed off as she began to gnaw at her bottom lip, staring down blankly at the opened cans of tomato sauce and black beans.  “I’m still working on it, but it looks like we’re having soup and day-old bread.”

After peeling off his layers of warmer outerwear and placing them in their proper storage location, Sandor leaned over Sansa’s shoulder to get a closer look.  “Need any help?”

“Uh…no, I…I’m good,” Sansa faltered slightly as Sandor slid forward, bracing himself against the rim of the counter with his palm, his right arm grazing hers as he leaned even impossibly closer to her.  Her eyes darting nervously to the side, she got any eyeful of his massive bicep tautly flexed under the fabric of his flannel shirt.  Unconsciously, Sansa wetted her lips with her tongue.  What she wouldn’t give to reach out and just give that bicep a little squeeze, you know, just between friends and all.

“You sure?” Sandor goaded her, his voice slightly lower than normal.  “I’m quite skilled with my hands, you know.”  He was fully aware that he was rattling her gilded cage by standing so close to her, no question about it.  If Sandor were a gentleman, he would give the little lady ample space.  He wouldn’t keep finding reasons to crowd her.  Hell, if he were a gentleman, he’d leave her the fuck alone.  But witnessing the blaze of crimson sweeping across her pale cheeks coupled with the ragged breaths she was taking as he leaned in even impossibly closer, Sandor also knew that he was a man too far gone to care.

Unable to resist, Sansa dared to look up into Sandor’s face.  Standing this close to him, she could see the flecks of gold and brown in his noticeably hooded eyes as well a few stray wisps of gray in his dark beard.  For what felt like her entire life, Sansa had dreamed of a moment like this with Sandor Clegane.  She had daydreamed of what it would feel like to finally meet him, to talk to him, and to spend time with him.  She had fantasized about touching him, kissing him, and experiencing the heat of his breath and body pressed firmly against hers.  As he loomed over her, his form dangerously close and his expression sinfully curious, Sansa heard her inner voice of reason shouting at her from the depths of her brain, screaming at her to be realistic.

 _Don’t be a fool,_ she warned herself while still soaking in the flicker of promise passing between them, _You mean nothing to Sandor.  What if he treats you like any other groupie who has drifted in and out of his life for one night?  Do you really want to be another notch on his bedpost?  Will you be able to handle it when it’s over and then he sails away and doesn’t look back?_

Swallowing hard to prevent her voice from sounding like a baby bird chirping, Sansa steeled her nerves.  Against her better judgment, she was going to do it.  She was so going there; she was going to hand Sandor an engraved invitation to rock her world tonight.

“Show me,” Sansa all but whispered as she released the implements of her dinner preparations without breaking her stare.

“Show you?” Sandor replied, his one black eyebrow raising in question.  He wanted her, right here, right now, but still he restrained himself from reaching out to touch her.  He needed to know that he wasn’t crazy.  Sandor needed to hear her tell him that this wasn’t his overactive imagination confusing his own lust with hers.

“Show me,” Sansa repeated more firmly, angling her body in the slip of space still existing between them so she could gaze directly up into his face, “Show me how good you really are, Sandor Clegane.”

One second…two seconds…three seconds…

Sandor didn’t move.  He didn’t flinch.  When his stormy gray eyes narrowed, Sansa began to doubt herself, yet she refused to back down now.  Was he wondering what in the hell he had gotten himself into today when he had invited her on his boat?  With her blue eyes scissoring across his face, Sansa nervously stood her ground, her heart thudding viciously in her chest as she waited for him to do something.  Anything.  Anything at all…

“With pleasure,” Sandor finally rasped, refusing to refrain any longer from trying to possess the bewitching beauty who had ignited something inside him both long ignored but not forgotten.  Pushing himself off the bar, Sandor stood at his full, overwhelming height, towering over her as he carefully raised his right hand to cup Sansa’s cheek.  While his calloused thumb gently traced tiny circles on her flushed face, he unconsciously bit his lower lip, pulling it under the top row of his teeth.  For a split second, Sandor wasn’t quite sure if the expression overtaking Sansa’s countenance was one of fear or lust, but when the gorgeous young lady leaned into his touch, lifting her own hand to hold onto his as he caressed her heated skin, Sandor accepted her actions as permission granted.

Slowly, ever so slowly he lowered his head, hoping that he would not frighten away the pretty little bird with his heinous mass of scars.  Twisting his neck as he approached her plump lips, Sandor cautiously assessed her reaction, praying to all of the gods both known and unknown that Sansa would not lock up on him now.  Thankfully, she responded in turn, her long lashes fluttering shut in anticipation of his contact.  Descending the last few inches, Sandor finally pressed his mouth to hers, not ungently, savoring the residual sweetness of sugar from her earlier coffee and the sound of Sansa’s sharp intake of breath when his massive hand slid into her hair, gripping her ginger locks tightly.

As Sandor’s lips melded with hers, Sansa was quite certain that she might spontaneously combust right then and there in the middle of his damn boat.  In all her wildest rock and roll fantasies, Sansa had always imagined that any sort of physical contact with the giant of a man who reeked of rough sex would be, well, rough.  She was astounded at just how gentle the man appeared to be while he kissed her with total tenderness.

When Sandor unhurriedly pulled back, his large hand still interwoven in her copper mane, Sansa leisurely opened her eyes, staring at him in amazement.  Tracing her lower lip with her tongue, she felt her throat constrict as Sandor hovered over, smiling widely at her as if she were the most incredibly important thing on the face of the earth. 

That did it.  No more fretting about the reunion or worrying about what tomorrow might bring.  Tonight, Sandor Clegane was hers.

“Well?” Sandor asked, his head turning slightly to study Sansa’s reddened cheeks.  He adored the way that the flush of crimson had spread from her face all the way down her pale neck, which made him wonder what color her chest was right about now.

“Well, what?” Sansa breathed in a woosh, embarrassed at herself for sounding like a silly, swooning girl who had never been kissed.

Sandor’s expression turned slightly playful as he joked, “Did I pass the test?”

“Hmm,” Sansa beamed, unable to hold back the surge of want overtaking her.  “You were supposed to show me how good you are with your hands, but yeah, so far, so good.”  Hiking herself up on her tiptoes, Sansa threw her arms around his neck, pulling him down to her lips, fiercely kissing him with all the passion and desire she could muster.

Determined to keep up with her, Sandor followed her lead, allowing his hands to splay across her back, yanking her forward until her breasts were pushing against his firm chest.  Turning her head, Sansa desperately wanted to deepen the kiss, her tongue darting out to lick his full bottom lip.  The moan of pleasure that fell from Sandor’s mouth was all the encouragement she needed.

As their open-mouth kisses grew increasingly intense, she felt his huge hands slide down her back all the way to her ass.  He squeezed and kneaded her bottom just this side of rough, grinding his hardening erection into her stomach.

 _Oh, my God, this is really happening,_ Sansa thought to herself as Sandor lowered his mouth to her neck, nipping and sucking his way down to that sweet spot right above her collar bone.  She literally gasped when one of his huge hands wandered up from backside to gently squeeze her left breast through her clothing.  Her hands were tangled in his shoulder-length hair, hanging on for dear life.

Taking a step forward as he brushed his thumb over her breast, Sandor now had Sansa pinned against the edge of the galley counter as he kissed his way up the other side of Sansa’s long neck.  He could feel her right leg slide up his own, rubbing up and down his calf as he continued to nibble on her lightly freckled flesh.  When he finally reached her jaw, Sandor bit down slightly, drawing a guttural moan from Sansa.

“Sansa,” he muttered as he ceased kissing her skin, his breathing rapid and shallow, raising his head to look her in the eyes, “Do you really want this?”

“I want this,” she smiled, sliding her right hand lazily down his chest, stopping long enough to run her nails through his chest hair exposed at his neckline, allowing said hand to travel all the way south until she could cup his hardness through his jeans, “I want you.”

“Fucking hell,” Sandor hissed, his eyes closing tightly as she gripped his manhood over the thick denim fabric, “Are you absolutely sure?”

Emboldened at how utterly wrecked he looked without her even shedding one article of clothing, Sansa could not resist taunting him.  “What’s the matter, Clegane?” she purred, giving his cock a playful squeeze, “Getting too old?  Afraid you won’t be able to keep up with me?”

“Oh, so that’s how it’s going to be then, is it?  Tease an old dog, eh?” he growled, a sly smile spreading across his face.  He promptly grabbed her by her wrist, yanking her hand off his cock.  He began to back up toward his master cabin, pulling her along with him.  “You’ll sing your song for me before I’m finished with you.” 

“Is that right?” she challenged him, relishing the playful banter, “You sure you can live up to all of my expectations?”

“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a big fucker,” Sandor bit back, his eyes dark with desire.  Grabbing on to Sansa’s other wrist, he yanked her forward, pulling her into the doorway of his cabin, “I don’t think you’ll be disappointed.”

“Oh, God,” was all Sansa managed to squeak out before he lunged forward, capturing her mouth in a searing kiss.  Backing her up to his bed, Sandor broke their heated kiss, reaching for the hem of her black blouse, stripping it off her as she raised her arms in the air.  Not to be outdone, Sansa’s hands dove for his blue flannel shirt, hurriedly undoing the buttons while his hands roamed her clothed backside.  She literally gasped when she finally managed to jerk open his shirt and caught sight of his bare chest.

“Jesus,” she groaned, shoving his shirt off his shoulders and yanking it from his jeans.  She tossed the shirt behind her haphazardly, too busy staring at the thick layer of dark, coarse hairs covering his chest.  In all of the Kingslayer photos, interviews, and concert footage that Sansa had seen, not once had she actually had the opportunity to see Sandor in such a state.  She scratched her nails along the muscles of his chest, lowering her mouth to suck at his nipple.  Sansa grinned at the sounds she extracted from him.

“Bloody hell, woman,” Sandor hissed as she gently bit down, sending a shockwave of desire straight to his groin.  His eyes screwed shut as she lifted her head and began to stroke his stomach, placing kisses on the various tattoos that adorned his skin.  Sansa kissed the medieval hound’s head on his left pec, tracing her mouth downward as she sank to her knees, placing a gentle kiss over the black ink on his stomach.

“What language is this?” Sansa asked curiously, tracing the words with her index finger.

Smiling down at her as she looked up into his eyes, Sandor carded his hands through her ginger locks as she reached for his belt and began to undo the buckle.  “It’s Gaelic.  ‘Is leigheas é an ceol ar an anam briste.’  It means, ‘Music heals a broken spirit.’”

“That’s beautiful,” Sansa sighed as she unzipped Sandor’s jeans, smiling at him as she reached inside his pants.  “When did you get it?”

“After…after our first album…we were on tour… _fuck,_ ” Sandor rasped when Sansa pulled out his cock, lowering her mouth to kiss the slit before tentatively darting her tongue out to lick the rim of the head.  When she wrapped her dainty right hand around the base and took him fully into her warm, wet mouth, Sandor involuntarily bucked his hips.  “Off,” he commanded hoarsely, reaching down to pull Sansa off his member, “I don’t want this to be over before I’ve had my fill of you.”

Without a word, Sansa allowed Sandor to bring her to her feet.  Still clad in her suit slacks, she willed herself to remain still as he reached behind her, unclasping her hot pink bra and sliding the straps over her shoulders.

“So beautiful,” Sandor rasped when he removed her undergarment, dropping it to his feet where he stood.  Unable to resist, he cupped her breasts, massaging them and squeezing them, molding them to his massive hands.

“Sandor…please,” Sansa whined, when his thumbs brushed across her hardened nipples.

“Such a polite little thing,” Sandor teased her as he released her breasts and lowered her to his bed.  Before she could come up a snappy retort, he reared back, quickly divesting her of her pants and dress socks as he added, “Tell me what you want, little bird.”  Hooking his fingers in her lacey hot pink underwear, Sandor slid them slowly down her legs and tossed them over his broad shoulders.

“I…I want…” she sputtered as Sandor slid his jeans and boxers down his hips, wetting her lips as he removed his boots and clothes, leaving them in a heap on the floor of his cabin.  Studying Sandor intently as he rose to his full, impressive height, naked as the day he was born, Sansa could not help but clench her thighs together at the sight of him.  He was so fucking tall and muscular.  His sizeable erection bobbed freely, jutting out from the nest of dark curls at the base.

“Whatever you want, just say it,” Sandor spoke softly as he drunk in the sight of Sansa’s thin yet curvy form.  She was perfect.  How could such an enchanting young woman willingly lay with the likes of him, former rock star or not?  Surely, she must have the men lined up waiting for her back home in Westeros.  Just the thought of another man touching her made him want to growl.  _Fuck, you don’t own her,_ Sandor chastised himself as he tentatively reached out to stroke her smooth lower legs.

“I want you to come here,” Sansa finally declared, desperately trying to ratchet down her giddiness and to sound like a mature adult.  She motioned for Sandor with her index finger, curling it in the air to beckon him to her.

“Gods, you’re so bloody amazing,” he praised, gently lowering himself on top of her, his knee bumping her legs apart slightly to make room for him.

The feel of his hairy chest brushing up against her sensitive nipples sent a shockwave of pleasure through her.  Slowly he kissed and nipped at every inch of her exposed skin, starting at her neck and working his way down to her breasts, his hands everywhere on her seemingly at once.  Licking a taut nipple, he lowered his head to take it into his mouth, sucking gently on it as he reached up to cup her other breast, causing her to gasp at the sensation.

Moaning at the sensations Sandor was extracting from her, Sansa was beginning to wonder if he could make her come just by rubbing up against her, she was that worked up right now.  Her eyes screwed shut tightly, her fingers scratching lightly at his scalp as she worked them through his shoulder-length black hair.

Sandor murmured various praises and curses as he travelled further south, finally stopping when his mouth was mere inches above her auburn curls.  She felt him pause, opening her pale blue eyes long enough to see his naughty look of promise before he grabbed her by the hips, yanking her forward, taking her sensitive and highly-aroused lady parts in his mouth.

“Sandor!” she yelped in pleasure as his tongue suddenly assaulted her folds, lapping and swirling greedily around the little bundle of nerves at the top of her mound.  She grabbed his head roughly then, holding him firmly in place, rocking her pelvis as he fucked her with his tongue.  “Oh, God…please!”

When he inserted a finger inside her cunny, curling it to try and discover where her sweet spot was hidden, Sansa thought she just might die of happiness right there in the middle of his king size bed.

“I’ll have that song now, little bird,” Sandor commanded, inserting a second finger inside of her, rapidly pumping them in between licks and sucks at her clit with his mouth, “Come for me.  Let go.”

Shouting Sandor’s name, Sansa felt the surge of her orgasm rushing over, enveloping her in waves of ecstasy as he slowed his ministrations down, allowing her to ride out the pleasure coursing through her body.  Boneless and sated, Sansa let go of his hair, flopping her arms down beside her on the bed, her legs doing the same.  Sandor placed a gentle kiss on the inside of each of her thighs before crawling back toward her, placing one forearm on either side of her head.

Gazing up into his stormy gray eyes, Sansa felt like she was the luckiest damn woman on the planet right now.  “That was…just…gah,” was all she could choke out.

Laughing at her inability to speak coherently, Sandor leaned down to kiss the tip of her nose, moving to her forehead.  “I told you that this old dog could keep up with the little bird.”  He could feel the head of his swollen cock thumping against the inside of her thigh.  God, he needed her.  He needed to be inside her and to make her his.  “Sansa,” he murmured as he bent his head down to kiss her shoulder, working his way back up her neck, “Let me have you, love.”

As he looked up, gazing into her eyes, reaching up to brush aside some of her wild, auburn locks sticking to her sweaty face, Sansa was blown away at how tender Sandor was with her.  In all of her rock and roll fantasies, she never took it into consideration that Sandor would be so sweet and gentle with a lover.

“So, do you have…any protection?” she grimaced, feeling like a totally backward teenager.

With his eyebrow locked and loaded, his mouth forming into a downright wicked grin, Sandor couldn’t help himself.  “I was a rock star, for fuck’s sake,” he scoffed, pretending to be offended, “What do you think?”

“You’re awful,” she snorted in amusement at his joke, playfully smacking his chest, “Did you know that?”

“I’m honest.  It’s the world that’s awful,” he shot back as he began to play with her breasts, “And for the record, you didn’t seem to think that I was _awful_ just a minute ago,” he replied, the sarcasm dripping from his words.

“Get inside me, Clegane, before I change my mind,” Sansa retorted with a smirk as she reached up to delicately stroke the burned side of his face, watching how his head involuntarily leaned into her palm.

“Wouldn’t want that, now would I?” Sandor teased as he scooted off the bed, squatting down to open one of the drawers under his captain’s bed.  He hurriedly dug around in his gear, trying to find a condom, muttering a string of curses under his breath as he searched and searched in vain.  Finally, Sandor’s efforts were rewarded when he found a couple lingering in the deep, dark recesses of his drawer.  Scrambling back onto the bed, he sat on his haunches, fumbling with the slick wrapper as if he’d never opened one before now.

Unable to control her giggles as she watched him struggle to unwrap the condom, Sansa covered her mouth with her hand to try to keep her laughter at bay.  He shot her a dirty look, “Alright, you.  It’s been a long time since - ”

“Give it here,” she declared, snatching the condom out of his clumsy hands, proud of herself for causing the big, bad rock god to blush like a maiden.  “Allow me.”

Once opened successfully, Sansa silently looked to Sandor for permission to do the honors.  With Sandor’s tacit nod of acquiescence, she reached down between them, rolling the condom on his thick cock, giving him a few pumps just for good measure.  Laying back on the bed, Sansa held him in her hands, guiding him to her entrance as he braced himself on the bed with his forearms.  Sandor pushed forward deliciously yet torturously slow, finally seating himself fully inside her.

Sansa thought that the top of her head was going to pop off and flip around like some ridiculous cartoon character she has seen once on a Saturday morning when she was a kid.  He was _huge_ , no question about that.  Sansa could feel every inch of him inside her, filling her, stretching her, bordering on uncomfortable.

“Please, Sandor, move,” she begged as she grasped his upper arms, involuntarily digging her nails into his flesh.  With his wide smile looking down at her, Sandor dutifully began to thrust, evidently determined to take his time with her.  Feeling him rocking languidly back and forth inside her, Sansa watched him intently.  His mouth was parted, his silver eyes barely cracked open as he began to lose himself in the sensation of her womanhood wrapped tightly around him.

“Buggering hell…you feel so good,” Sandor groaned as he pumped in and out of Sansa, feeling the way that she rocked her hips in time with his movements.  Bracing himself on one arm, he reached down to where they were joined and began to massage her, swirling his fingers around her pearl.

“Unh...Sandor…” Sansa moaned loudly when he began to pick up the pace with both his thrusts and his ministrations.  “Yes, oh God…like that…”

The vision laid under him was almost too much to bear.  Sandor studied the way Sansa’s plush lips were parted, her eyes closed as she reveled in their coupling.  He watched how she chewed on her bottom lip when he stroked her just right, enjoying the way she arched her back as he pulled out almost all the way and entered her again.  She was the most perfect creature that he had ever seen.

“Sing your beautiful song for me again, little bird,” Sandor whispered as he lifted her legs over his hips, “Come for me.”

Sansa’s eyes virtually rolled into the back of her head as he took her in earnest now, the change in angle and the increased depth of his thrusts making her slightly dizzy.  She clawed at his back, not caring if she left her mark on him, scratching at him in desperation as the deluge of sensations overtook her.

“Sandor,” she whimpered over and over again almost in a prayer, her eyes locked with his just as her orgasm began to wash over her.

Sandor watched in awe as Sansa peaked, her flaming mane spread out wildly over his pillows.  He was so damn close.  He roughly gripped her hips with his hands, continuing to move rapidly inside of her. 

“Sansa, I’m going…I can’t hold out much longer,” Sandor warned.

When Sansa reached for his ass, grabbing a hold and squeezing hard, that was all it took to send Sandor tumbling over the edge, finding his own release.  She could feel him pulsing inside of her as she listened to his grunts and groans of pleasure overtaking him.  As his thrusts ground to a halt, he pulled out.  Worried that he might crush her with his massive form, Sandor collapsed rather ungracefully onto the bed beside her with such force that he caused her to slightly bounce.  Reaching out for her, he pulled her close to his body.   Sansa lay her head on his shoulder, absentmindedly petting the dark hairs on his sweaty chest while he caressed her hair.

“How did I do?” Sandor inquired, his breaths slightly jagged, his tongue truly in cheek at the moment.

Feeling completely spent, Sansa couldn’t help but giggle at hearing that damn smug tone in his voice.  “You are very skilled with your hands,” she purred, running her fingers up and down the line of dark, thick hair leading to his manhood, “Any chance we could do that…again?”

“Impatient, are we?” Sandor chuckled, “I’m an old man, remember?  Give me a minute to recover first.”

Sansa smirked so wide her cheeks almost hurt.  “You didn’t seem that old to me just now.”

They laughed together loudly at her comment.  Sandor held onto Sansa tightly, running his fingertips lightly along her bare back.  Falling into a comfortable silence, the pair lay like that for some time, the only sounds surrounding them the soft noise of the waves of the sea gently rocking the boat.  Sansa was afraid to speak first, afraid that she would break the spell of the moment that had just passed between them. 

Suddenly, she felt Sandor lean forward.  “Gotta take care of the mess,” he said, bending down to plant a quick kiss on her cheek before rising to his feet, “Don’t go anywhere,” he called out to her as he exited the master cabin, padding along the teak floor toward the head.

“I don’t plan on it,” she yelled as she heard him closing the door.  She could hear his bark of laughter quite easily through the bathroom door. 

As she lay in the middle of Sandor’s bed, feeling the smooth weave of the blue sheets cooling the heat of her skin, Sansa stretched her arms and legs.  She thought about how easy it had been for Sandor to draw such intense pleasure from her during their first time together.  Although she was no blushing virgin, thanks to Sansa’s embarrassingly short track record when it came to men, she knew in her heart that there was something truly special about what just happened between the two of them.

At that moment, Sansa began to realize the truth behind what she had just told Sandor; she truly _didn’t_ want to go anywhere.  She rolled over onto her stomach, clutching the pillow to her as she was struck with the intense wave of emotion that hit her.  She was in love with him.  Sure, Sansa had always possessed one hell of an intense crush on the former rock star, but now…everything had changed for her.  And the irony of the whole affair was that come tomorrow morning, Sansa was going to go have to leave him and go back to Westeros.  That was where her life was, and his life was out here on the water.  God, how could she expect anything different?

While washing up in the head, Sandor took a long look at himself in the small mirror hanging on the wall.  He turned his head to the side, scrutinizing the angry, scarred flesh on the side of his face.  What in the hell did Sansa see in him?  They were strangers, really.  She may know everything about him but his blood type, but she didn’t really know him.  Not the real Sandor.  She didn’t know the man whose nightmares from the accident still haunted him.  She didn’t know about his fears that his bandmates would actually reject him if he ever tried to reconnect with them.  She didn’t know about his yearning that just for fucking once, he could pick up his guitar again and actually feel something, anything, other than the numbness that plagued him.

Leaning on the tiny sink, Sandor took a deep, steadying breath.  He was a fool.  He was nothing but a lonely old fool to think that a young woman with her whole life ahead of her would want to deal with a broken man like him.  What he wouldn’t give for a chance to really get to know Sansa.

Sandor pushed off the sink, sliding the pocket door to the head shut.  As he made his way through the boat toward his cabin, he tried to come up with something to say to her.  Something to tell her that she had made him feel things that he’d closeted up and locked shut years ago.

Instead, Sandor’s words died on his lips when he saw Sansa laying in his bed, nestled in the thick comforter like she belonged there.

“Hey,” she spoke quietly, propping herself up with her hand under her head.

“Hey,” he answered softly, sitting down on the edge of the bed.  Tentatively, Sandor reached out to brush her hair off her pale shoulder.

“Still want me to make that soup?” Sansa asked, her lips curving into a wisp of a smile.

Sandor blinked hard, swallowing before he replied, “Absolutely.”  Smiling widely, he climbed onto his bed, sliding in between the comforter and the sheets, taking Sansa into his arms, deciding that he would show her without words just how much she had gotten under his skin today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Don't let anyone tell you you can't do something. Make your own victories. Make your own mistakes." - Joan Jett


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a moment of intimacy, Sansa and Sandor silently struggle with their rapidly shifting feelings for each other while ensconced in the cozy comfort of Sandor's boat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even though the redheaded record label employee as well as the former rock star realize that something special is happening between them, neither one dares to confess what is on their minds and in their hearts.

While enjoying the sensation of Sandor’s long fingers languidly carding through her tangled mass of ginger locks, Sansa rested her head on his bare chest, absentmindedly petting the dark hairs covering his stomach.  Now that she was enveloped in the warmth of Sandor’s embrace, sleepy and sated after their second go-round, Sansa marveled at how dramatically the dynamic between her and the former rock star had shifted.

When he had taken her the second time, their coupling had rapidly turned frantic and frenzied, the earlier displays of tenderness nowhere to be found.  Engulfed in the fury of their passion, the fledgling lovers spoke no words as the sounds of skin on skin slapping in the dim lighting of his cabin reverberated off the wooden walls.  Sansa had scratched and clawed her way up Sandor’s muscular back while he relentlessly pounded into her, his grunts of both pain and pleasure barely registering in her brain.  Changing positions suddenly, Sandor had pulled out completely, jerking Sansa’s legs up and over his shoulders a split second before he resumed thrusting forcefully inside her.  The coiling flames of her release erupted in record speed once locked into the new position, a blinding light behind her eyelids bursting forth while the waves of ecstasy washed over her.  With her cunny squeezing his cock in a sinful rhythm, Sandor came with a shout, stilling above her, silver eyes slamming shut tightly right before he virtually collapsed next to her.

Now laying together in a jumbled heap of blissed-out limbs, both slightly sweaty and highly sated, Sansa sighed heavily as Sandor’s fingers unwound from her hair and began to trace a path up and down her shoulder.  Snuggled firmly against the naked guitarist, who seemed to be in no hurry for her to get out of his bed and off his boat, Sansa wished to stay right here in his strong arms forever.  She wanted this.  She wanted him.  She wanted to explore whatever it was that was happening between the two of them.  Yet time was not on her side.

“I’d best be getting you something to eat,” Sandor rasped, clearing his throat while still gliding his fingers up and down her smooth skin.  Before Sansa could reply, her stomach decided to answer him for her.  “Bloody hell,” Sandor chuckled upon hearing Sansa’s gurgling innards.  “That hungry, are you?”

_Not kicking me off the boat yet, thank God._

Sansa rolled her mischievous blue eyes at his comment.  “Well, I haven’t eaten in hours, and you _did_ help me work up quite an appetite,” she teased him playfully, lifting her head to look him directly in the eye.

“Are you complaining?” he snarked in return, reaching to tuck a wayward lock of hair behind her ear.

“Not one bit,” Sansa replied sincerely as she leaned into his touch, the seriousness of her words not lost on Sandor.  “I wouldn’t change a thing.”

Swallowing hard upon hearing Sansa’s comment, Sandor gazed upon the mesmerizing beauty like a love-sick fool.  Christ almighty, he wanted her to stay with him tonight.  Not just for some make-shift dinner that he managed to pull together, but for the entire night.  The roads could be hazardous out here once the temperature dropped, especially along the winding back roads which led back to White Harbor.  Over coffee today, she had already explained how much trouble she had experienced just getting here from Planky Town.  The poor girl had no sense of direction.  If he let her leave now that daylight had faded into night, Sansa might never be heard from again.

Also, if Sandor let Sansa venture back into White Harbor on her own, he would never be able to live with himself.  The rural, rustic location might appear quaint to a wide-eyed city girl, but the reality was much different.  White Harbor was nothing more than a ragtag lot of lonely fishermen, vagabonds, and various other miscreants mired in a vat of unholy intentions.  By now, Beric’s tavern would be full to the brim with the local talent.  Not one of those bastards deserved to breathe the same air as Sansa Stark, let alone attempt to speak to her.  That motley crew hadn’t seen a true lady in years.  The only women in town were the few whores who perpetually peddled their talents as well as Unella, the local mercantile owner whose stern, disapproving demeanor was enough to shrivel a man’s balls on the spot.

However, if Sandor were being perfectly honest with himself, he wanted Sansa to stay with him because he enjoyed her company.  She brought life to his decayed world.  Like a radiant light sent from the heavens, Sansa had burst into his vision, smacking Sandor upside his scarred face with her effervescent joy and infernal perkiness.  Because of her, he had felt things that he hadn’t felt in years.  He was happy.  He was happy, goddamn it.  Call him a selfish bastard, but Sandor wanted to keep her with him as long as possible.  Yet asking her to stay…fuck, talk about taking a risk.  Risk taking was not something that the former rock star did any more.

“So, I was thinking…” Sandor began tentatively, pulling his bottom lip under his teeth, racking his brain for the proper words so he wouldn’t sound as desperate as he truly was.

“Hmm?” Sansa responded, angling her head such that her crimson hair cascaded across her slightly flushed face.

“I, uh…well, if you’d like me to drive with you to White Harbor after we eat,” Sandor began in a rush, “You could follow me there so you wouldn’t get lost.”

“Oh,” Sansa smiled softly, her pale features morphing into something Sandor couldn’t quite read.  “Yeah, that would be…sure.  I’d appreciate that.”  Was she disappointed?  Could it be that she wanted to hang around him as much as he wanted to hang around her?

_Bugger it all to hell._

Tonight, Sandor was willing to gamble his entire life savings and throw his boat in to boot if it meant Sansa might stay with him even if just for the night.

“Or if you’d prefer,” Sandor continued, once again clearing his throat, “You could stay on board with me tonight.”  When Sansa’s ginger brows raised almost to her hairline, he experienced a moment of panic that maybe he had misread her response.  With his heart thudding against his ribcage, Sandor continued.  “No expectations, of course.  I have a smaller cabin at the other end which you can stay in if you wish.  It will just take me a few minutes to clean out some of the shite I have stored in there so you can get to the berth.”

Sansa couldn’t believe her ears.  One second, she thought Sandor was trying to figure out a way to dismiss her as politely as possible, and then in the next he was asking her to stay with him tonight.

“I’d like that,” Sansa beamed widely, unable to reign in her mounting giddiness.  “Thank you, Sandor.  Thank you for everything.”

“Such a polite little bird you are,” Sandor snorted in reply, caught off guard by her exuberant expression.  “Don’t thank me ‘til you see the cabin.  It’s rather small, and - ”

“If it’s alright with you,” Sansa countered, her hand resting on his furry stomach tracing the pathway of ink adorning his skin, “I’ll just stay in your cabin.  There’s plenty of room for both of us, so why bother trying to clean out the other one?”

“As you wish,” Sandor virtually whispered, lifting his massive hand, cupping her cheek, running his thumb along her heated skin.  Damn him if he didn’t have to blink hard to beat back the emotion daring to well in his gray eyes.  Sansa could see with her own eyes what he had become.  A scarred drifter with nothing to offer her other than his past notoriety.  Why this utterly ravishing young lady wanted him was beyond all rational thought.

Without uttering a word, Sansa lowered her head, closing the distance between her and Sandor.  Barely pressing her warm mouth to his, she allowed her hand to wander, climbing higher toward his chest, rifling through the thick, dark hairs that covered him.  She knew that Sandor was scared.  She knew he was scared to let her in.  Hell, _she_ was scared.  They were two people, two strangers, connected through space and time via Sandor’s music.  He had been with her throughout her childhood.  He had been with her through her adolescence, helping her drown out the angst of youth.  He had been with her when she was happy or sad or lonely or upset.  Sansa could barely remember life before Sandor Clegane had been a part of hers.  And now that he truly _was_ a part of her now, there was no turning back.

Sansa was so far gone for this man, it was ridiculous.  She couldn’t remember a time when she didn’t have a crush on the giant man currently winding his hands into her hair and kissing her reverently.  That had merely been a crush, though.  That had not been reality.  Until today, Sandor had been an image on the television, a voice on the radio, a fantasy that teased her daydreams.  Now Sansa had a new reality based on flesh and bone; she had seen a glimpse of the real Sandor Clegane, both body and soul.

As Sandor repositioned himself to lower Sansa to her back, their time together throughout the day replayed in her head like a montage from a movie.  Sandor’s ever-so-slightly high-pitch laugh when he was thoroughly amused…the crinkled lines around his silver eyes stretching when he smiled...his warm breath ghosting along the valley of her breasts…his long black hair tickling the inside of her parted thighs while he pleasured her with his mouth…

This was Sansa’s new reality.  All of this.

_This._

“I thought you were hungry,” Sandor grinned down at Sansa as she slid her fingers through his coal black hair.

“I am,” Sansa giggled when his hand skimmed the skin along the periphery of her waist.  Unconsciously, she jerked slightly at his feather-light touch.

“Is somebody ticklish?” he wondered, immediately repeating the movement of his fingers.  To his delight, Sansa squeaked in response, batting his hand away from her body.  “Just how ticklish are you?” Sandor challenged her, cocking his black eyebrow her direction.

“You wouldn’t dare,” she countered as sternly as possible, trying to scowl at him but failing miserably.  The thought of being tickled by Sandor made her breathing amplified thanks to the delicious anticipation that he might unleash the hounds on her.

“Watch me,” Sandor boldly declared, letting loose his nimble fingers to do their dirty work.  His heart soared with each and every one of Sansa’s giddy shrieks of feigned shock, relishing the way she twisted and chortled under his ministrations.  As quickly as he began, Sandor ceased.  He couldn’t help but enjoy the view, watching the way her bare breasts rose and fell with her pants.  “This day’s really not working out the way you planned, is it?” he barked in amusement when Sansa thumped him square on the chest with her palm.

“You can say that again,” she answered breathlessly, her cheeks sore from her laughter.

Once again, a comfortable silence overtook the cabin while the pair continued to stare at one another.  This young woman had bewitched him like no other.  Sandor had not been this happy in such a long time, the feeling was almost foreign to him.  If only for tonight, he could pretend.  He could pretend that Sansa was his.  He could pretend that for once in his damn life, he possessed the love of a good woman who wanted him for who he really was.

“Give me your keys,” Sandor softly spoke as he allowed his imagination to wander, “I’ll run up to your car and grab your bags while you make us dinner.”

Running her hand along his bearded jaw, she smiled in return.  “Do you really want to carry all of my stuff on board?  Because if you do, I’m afraid we might capsize.”

Scoffing at her words with a chuckle, Sandor answered.  “We’ll be fine, girl.  You’ll not be rid of me that easily.”

That comment caused Sansa’s heart to skip a beat.

_God, I hope not._

“Sure,” she replied while clearing her throat.

Stealing a kiss, Sandor hopped out of bed, rifling through the pile of discarded clothes on this cabin floor.  Hurriedly he pulled on his boxers and jeans, followed closely by his blue flannel shirt.  Sansa slowly rose to a seated position, feeling the slight sting of beard burn between her milky thighs.  Grinning to herself, she was just about to reach for her bra and panties when Sandor’s words froze her in place.

“You want to wear something of mine ‘til you get your bags?” he offered tentatively, shuffling from one foot to the other in a precious dance of nerves.

“I’d love that,” Sansa said with a huge smile as Sandor spun on his heels to pilfer his clothing haphazardly shoved in its storage location.  Taking the too-large, long sleeve yellow henley that Sandor handed her, she had to resist the urge to bury her face into the fabric and take a long sniff.

“Your keys?” Sandor smirked at her, almost as if he knew full well what she was thinking just now.

“Hang on,” Sansa replied while rising to her bare feet.  She slipped the henley over her head, stuffing her arms into the baggy sleeves, yanking the cuffs upward to her elbow.  Astounded by just how massive Sandor’s shirt was, she was unable to contain her giggles at the sight of the hemline skimming her knees.

“What’s so funny?” he asked her while she walked past him toward the galley.  Looking over her shoulder, Sansa bit her lip when Sandor had to stoop to get through the doorway.

“You really _are_ a big fucker,” she jested as she jerked her purse off the built-in wooden bench on which she had shared coffee with the former rock star not so long ago.  Caught off guard by her using his own words from earlier in the day, Sandor threw his head back, laughing thunderously at her jab.  And as Sandor’s slightly high-pitched laughter echoed through the boat, Sansa thanked the gods both known and unknown for the best damn day of her entire life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “It’s OK to be a little broken. Everybody’s broken in this life.” – Jon Bon Jovi


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa's fangirl dream comes true when Sandor agrees to play for her tonight while nestled in the warmth of his boat. Surprised at how quckly the young woman has brought inspiration to his lonely word, Sandor basks in the ecstasy of finding his muse once again. And the fledging lovers finally decide to take the plunge and to see just where this thing between them leads.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, folks! Once again, I apologize for the horrendous delay in getting this fic updated. At least take comfort in the knowledge that it's almost six thousand words. That should make it up to you, right? *wink* Enjoy!

Snuggled up on Sandor’s bed while the former rock star noodled around on his guitar, Sansa felt like the luckiest woman alive.  Not only had she managed to locate Sandor Clegane, rock icon and guitar legend, mere minutes after arriving in White Harbor, but she had also been willingly invited into his private oasis where he had lived outside of the public eye for years.  Spending a delightful afternoon in the older man’s presence had transformed into a spur-of-the-moment dinner which in turn had miraculously morphed into two utterly unforgettable moments of passion, the memories of which Sansa would carry with her until she drew her last breath.

And now as the few amber rays of daylight had finally faded into the blackness of night here out on the open waters just outside of White Harbor, Sansa once again was basking in ecstasy thanks to Sandor’s ministrations, even though his highly skilled hands weren’t touching her this time.

Nestled in the warmth of Sandor’s cabin, Sansa lazily reclined on his bed, smiling like a fool while he gave her an impromptu private concert.  Cradling his instrument like a long-lost lover, his silver eyes clamped shut as he plucked and strummed, Sandor expertly extracted a euphonious set of tunes which crisply echoed off the wooden walls of his cabin.  To Sansa’s sheer delight, his dexterous digits deftly maneuvered along the silver frets of his too-tiny, travel-sized black guitar, his deep, rich voice softly singing to himself as he played.  Sandor wasn’t really playing any particular song, instead meandering through a menagerie of melodies, none of which she recognized but enjoyed regardless.  Unconsciously, Sansa gnawed at her bottom lip as he suddenly departed from playing something jazzy and dove right into a round of blues-infused riffs.  As Sandor played, she marveled at the way his massive hands melded into his instrument, almost like an extension of his own body. 

Sweet baby Jesus on a bus, those _hands_ …

To be perfectly honest, Sansa had always had a thing for Sandor’s hands.  They were smooth yet rough, callused yet soft.  And they were freaking enormous, not unlike other parts of his body she had recently discovered.  Not surprised by her body’s reaction to that train of thought, Sansa silently ordered her libido to heel for once today, purposely slowing her breaths to try to unknot the ball of desire percolating inside her lower belly.  With each and every stroke of the six strings he so masterfully commanded, the poor man was unknowingly winding her up like a cuckoo clock that really, _really_ wouldn’t mind another release if it were offered.

It hadn’t been that long ago when Sansa was standing in the galley, voluntarily washing up the few dishes which they had generated from dinner, while Sandor had stood huddled over his drafts table, busying himself with his various navigational tools and maps.  She’d casually asked him during their meal when he was planning to leave White Harbor, and to her dismay, he had quietly replied that he would depart for Lemonwood tomorrow since the weather was turning cold much quicker than expected.  She had laughed, though, when he had added that being landlocked all winter in White Harbor was enough to drive a man insane.  Determined to act like an adult, Sansa had played it cool, acting as nonchalantly as possible even though her innards had coiled into a snug knot. 

As Sandor had busied himself, the bittersweet reality slammed into Sansa like a gale-force wind: tomorrow Sandor would leave, and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it.  Their parting was inevitable.  She had tried to talk about the possibility of a Kingslayer reunion with him during dinner, but Sandor had artfully dodged her attempts to bring up the subject matter, diverting her attention with questions about her life in Westeros.  Although she loved that he was interested in getting to know her better, she wished that he’d have shown a little more interest in hearing about the possibility of reuniting with the band.

Thinking about losing Sandor, Sansa had to choke down a surge of emotions as she stood in the galley.  They might have shared something sublimely special aboard his boat, yet that didn’t bind them to one another.  They were still strangers.  She had no true claim on his affections.  And knowing her luck, Sandor probably saw her as just some much-younger, horny fan girl whose mission to resurrect his music career was futile from the start.  Sansa wanted so much more, but Sandor surely wouldn’t feel the same way.  She couldn’t expect the man to suddenly abandon his life and to follow her back to Westeros even if the sex had been a 9.8 on the Richter scale.

When Sandor had heard her sniffling, he swiftly turned so he could see her over his broad shoulders.  Sansa almost lost it right then and there when he had asked her if she were alright, the genuine concern evidenced in his voice and furrowed brow.  Determined not to fall apart, she chose to beat down her inner angst, blurting out the first thing that popped into her head: she asked him if he would play something for her tonight, nothing special or specific, just anything that he felt led to share.

Sandor’s gray eyes almost bugged out of his head upon hearing her abrupt request, which caused Sansa to wince slightly in return, her mind racing down a rabbit hole of possible outcomes.  Perhaps she had been too presumptuous.  Expecting the worst, she had braced herself for his answer.  Yet Sandor hadn’t replied.  He simply stood stupefied like a ginormous statue until he finally reached up to scratch behind his neck, stunning Sansa with his reply.

Sandor said yes.

He had actually agreed!

Sansa had all but levitated the minute Sandor invited her into his quarters to hear him in action.  Eagerly, she had jumped onto his bed, scooting toward the back wall so he had enough room to sit on the edge.  Silently, Sandor had reached above her head, unearthing a ridiculously small black guitar which had been hermetically sealed in a cloth carrying case snugly secured on his cabin wall using nothing other than a pair of bungee cords.  As Sandor had positioned himself next to her on his bed, he briefly glanced her way right before his expert fingers touched the fret board.

And now while lying on Sandor’s bed, relishing the way in which he lost himself inside the music, Sansa was floating on the proverbial cloud nine.  This whole day was literally a dream come true.  She had finally met the former rock star known for his hot-temper and legendary guitar skills.  Yet, she had fallen in love with the surprisingly gentle sailor who might be scarred but wasn’t broken.  How her chest ached at the thought of him drifting away tomorrow.

Deciding on the spot to woman up for once, Sansa took a deliberate breath to ease her nerves.  As soon as Sandor was finished with his private concert, she was going to tell him the truth.  She was going to tell him that she wanted to give this thing percolating between them a chance.  No more beating around the bush or hiding behind her fears.  She needed to do it.  She needed to speak up before it was too late.  If Sandor still sailed away tomorrow, at least Sansa could go back to Westeros knowing she had given it her best shot.

 _I have to try,_ she told herself as she watched Sandor intently. _I won’t be able to live with myself if I don’t._

While Sansa sat stewing on his bed, Sandor was basking in the sensation of what playing guitar used to feel like before the accident had stripped him of his creativity.  Working his way around the fretboard, he was both dumbfounded and elated at how easily the music poured from him tonight.  This was the first time since he didn’t know when that playing the guitar had felt so good.  Bloody hell, it felt _amazing._ Though his fingertips stung from his lack of practice these days, he didn’t give a fuck if his fingers bled.  The pain be damned, he wanted to play for hours. 

Initially, Sandor had prepared to refuse Sansa’s surprise request that he play for her, but there had been something in the mournful expression lurking in the depths of her smile which gnawed at him.  The young woman had brought a ray of light into the darkness of his lonely world.  Surely, playing her a song or two was the least he could do to thank her.  She deserved that at least.  Too bad for her that he hadn’t touched his guitar in so long, he had cringed inwardly.  Gritting his teeth, Sandor braced himself as he held his pick.  What Sandor had not bargained on, however, was how easy the notes came to him as Sansa watched and listened.  It was like he had never stopped playing in the first place.

With his silver eyes clamped shut, Sandor offered his fingers free rein, gliding them along the neck without worrying where they wound up.  His imagination ran equally wild, dreaming about what it would be like to play for Sansa every night while nestled here onboard.  That image melded into a vision of him on stage with the band, playing live in front of thousands of screaming fans while Sansa’s smiling face eagerly waited for him in the wings backstage as he pounded out the heavy beat of Kingslayer’s hard rock tunes.  Her powerful impact on Sandor in such a miniscule amount of time floored him.

After the accident, picking up his guitar had become an exhausting exercise in frustration, a painful reminder of a life long lost.  He’d given up hope.  He just didn’t feel it anymore.  Hell, he barely felt _anything_ anymore.  That was his way of life for almost a decade as he merely existed, drifting along in a day-to-day fog that never seemed to lift.

Until today, that is.

As Sandor’s hands explored his guitar, he thought about his conversation during dinner with Sansa.  When she had seemed shocked that he didn’t play guitar anymore, he had grumbled about losing his desire in the car wreck.  Not missing a beat, the perky redhead refused to believe him, telling him that someone as gifted as he was surely would never truly lose their passion.  Instead, Sansa had insisted that his fervor for music had simply been buried inside him, hermetically sealed yet fiercely clawing to be released.  All it would take, so she had declared brazenly, was the right muse.

The girl was wise beyond her years.

On the spot, Sandor decided to play a Kingslayer tune for Sansa.  He hadn’t played any material from his days with the band in so long, he wondered if he still could.  Fear seized him as he launched without warning into the first few bars.  To his delight, Sandor heard a soft gasp emanating from her throat when she realized that he had started playing “The Rains of Castamere.”  He couldn’t stop the shy grin that spread across his damaged face.

“Oh, my God!” Sansa cried out, her hands flying to cover her mouth as she processed her shock.

“Surprise,” he rasped, enjoying the way her bright blue eyes brimmed simultaneously with both wonder and reverence.

“But you said you’d never play a Kingslayer song again,” she murmured softly through her fingers.

“Never say never,” Sandor teased her with a sly wink.  “Remember?”

As Sansa stared in awe at him as his fingers glided along the frets, their earlier dinner conversation churned inside her head.  When she had asked him about coming with her to Westeros to talk with Jaime and the guys about a reunion, Sandor had insisted that hell would freeze over before he played a Kingslayer tune again, let alone rejoin the band.  Undaunted, Sansa had wagged her finger at him, telling him to never say never because those were words that would bite him in the butt one day.  How he had laughed and laughed at her choice of words.

Holding her stare, Sandor blazed ahead as he finished the intro, concentrating on every nuance of her pretty pale face.  The tears welling in Sansa’s eyes as he began to sing caused his stomach to clench.  He didn’t need to ask her what was wrong this time.  He already knew.  He already knew because he was thinking the same bloody thing.  There was an ineffable connection between the two of them, a synergy like he had never felt with another woman.  Sansa had unexpectedly entered his world and had turned it on its head.  She was under his skin, and damn him straight to the seven hells and back if he tried to deny it any longer.

In the space of a few hours, Sansa Stark had rekindled his muse.

She had resurrected his ambition.

And she had stolen a piece of his heart.

As the song came to its resolution, Sandor gave his guitar one final strum, allowing the six strings to hum in chorus.  Smiling at her like an absolute idiot, he had so many things he wanted to say to her.  He wanted to tell her how fantastic it had felt to play again.  He wanted to thank her for helping rekindle his spark of creativity long abandoned.  Truth be told, Sandor wanted to beg her to run away with him to Lemonwood and never look back.

 _You’re absolutely crazy,_ he wondered to himself in disbelief.  _You’re really going to tell her how you feel, aren’t you?_

And why shouldn’t he?  What did he have to lose?  She would probably think he was insane…but then again, she might not.

Sandor steeled his nerves.  He was going to do it.  He was going to put his pride on the line.  He was going to take a huge risk, the likes of which he hadn’t taken in ages.

“Thank you, Sandor,” she whispered before he could speak, her voice trembling as she wiped away the wetness in her eyes that had escaped.  “That was…it was just…I can’t even…”

“I should be the one thanking you, little bird,” Sandor insisted tenderly.

“But why?” Sansa asked, a hint of melancholy tinging her voice.  Ducking her head sheepishly, her ginger hair cascaded downward, partially covering her face.  She couldn’t look at him.  She knew if she did, she would break down for sure.

“Because…well, I…” he started haphazardly, his tongue not quite able to catch up to his brain.  Christ almighty, when in the hell had he turned into such a wuss?

“You don’t have to say anything,” she faltered, bravely lifting her eyes to meet his.

“Actually, I do,” he countered.  Sandor leaned forward, gently resting his guitar on the floor of his cabin before returning his attention to her.  “Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I’ve wanted to play?”

“No,” she said quietly.

“Too long to remember, that’s how long,” he said bluntly.

“So why tonight?” Sansa dared to ask.  “What’s changed?”

“I think you already know the answer to that one,” Sandor challenged, refusing to back down now that he was _thisclose_ to spilling his guts.

“Sandor…” she hesitated.  Sansa’s eyes scissored across his visage in desperation.  This was it.  This was the moment she hadn’t dare dream possible.  She could feel it all the way to the marrow of her bones.  Sandor was opening up to her, and if she were a lucky woman, he was on the verge of saying something which could change both of their lives forever.

“When you asked me to play, I almost said no,” Sandor confessed, scooting closer to where she lay on his bed.  He took one of her hands in his, placing his other hand on top.

“I couldn’t believe you agreed,” Sansa barely smiled at him.

Steadying himself for her reaction, Sandor laid it all on the line.  “You’ve made me feel alive again,” he declared.  “I think you can feel it, too.”

Sansa’s eyes widened at his admission, her mouth dry and her throat itching with anticipation.  “I do,” she murmured under his gaze, her stomach flipping when his rough fingers threaded through hers.  When he brought her hand to his mouth and placed a chaste kiss on her knuckles, Sansa wanted to climb on deck and shout over the railing to release her some of her giddiness.

“I have so much I want to say to you,” he promised, still not quite sure how to tell the young woman how deeply she had affected him today.

“Me too,” Sansa interjected.

“I’m not very good at this sort of thing, though,” Sandor added, pausing when she broke into a fit of giggles, wondering what he had said that was so funny.

“Me either,” Sansa laughed, her merriment causing Sandor to smile in return.

“We’re two peas in a pod, eh?” he joked.

“Yeah, I guess so,” she agreed, brushing her unruly hair out of her face.  Casting her eyes toward their joined hands, Sansa smiled widely as she spoke, “When I came to White Harbor today, I never dreamed that tonight I’d be sitting here on your boat, wearing your shirt, and listening to you play,” she said, pausing as the memories of their day together washed over her.

“You and me both,” Sandor snorted in agreement.

“I know that we’ve just met, Sandor, and I’m sure I sound like some sort of weird stalker fan girl when I say this, but there’s a real connection between us, and I really want more time with you.”  She gnawed her bottom lip as she met his gray eyes again.

With a sharp intake of breath, Sandor’s heart soared.  Sansa had feelings for him, too, and now that she had opened the door, it was time for him to step inside and be honest with her.  It was definitely not the time to fuck around and act aloof and indifferent as usual.

“I’d like that, too,” he agreed slowly.  “And for the record, you don’t sound like a weird stalker, either.”

“Do I sound like a fan girl, though?” Sansa teased.

“Well…maybe just a little,” he smiled, quickly darting to the side to avoid her playful smack on his upper arm.

“So, what happens now?” she asked, slightly flummoxed at the thought.  “I mean, how do we explore whatever this connection is if you’re heading to Lemonwood tomorrow, and I’m going back home to Westeros?”

“You could always come with me,” Sandor blurted out without thinking, panicking for a moment when her icy blue eyes widened like an animal caught in headlights.

“Come with you?” Sansa repeated in a haze, still not quite sure she had heard him correctly.

“Aye, you can sail with me to Lemonwood,” he said, lifting his free hand to card it through her crimson hair.  “It’s beautiful there this time of year.”

“But…” she stammered, the idea overwhelming and thrilling her all at once.  “I have a job…I can’t just go…”

“Sure, you can,” Sandor countered.  “You already promised Jaime and Tyrion that you’d spend the rest of your life trying to convince me to rejoin Kingslayer, remember?”

“I did say that, didn’t I?” she tittered in amusement at having her words from their initial meeting outside Thoros’s diner repeated back to her.  “Sounds like somebody was listening to me this afternoon after all.”

“I might have paid a bit of attention to you,” he chuckled.  “So, why not just tell them you can’t come back yet because you’re too busy convincing me to rejoin the band?” he added with a smirk.

Sansa blinked slowly as Sandor’s nefarious scheme settled inside her brain.  Huh.  Sail with him to Lemonwood…it actually sounded plausible.  Tyrion did tell her to take as much time as she needed to rein in the skittish guitarist.  She could tell Jaime and Tyrion that Sandor was considering their offer, which given enough time and the right form of persuasion, Sandor might actually accept.  And she hadn’t taken a vacation since joining the record label since, well…ever?  Perhaps a private boat journey to Lemonwood with the object of her desire was just the ticket to paradise she’d been praying for all damn day.

Afraid her lack of response meant that he’d pushed too far too quickly, Sandor backpedaled.  “Sorry, love…I know you have a life back in Westeros.  I shouldn’t have asked you to do that.  I’m just being a greedy bastard.”  His face fell slightly, though he held his smile.

“Now, hold on a minute, I didn’t say no, did I?” Sansa cautioned him, narrowing her blue eyes as she calculated her course of action.

Sandor shook his head.  “No, you didn’t.”

“I do have a few questions.”

“Shoot.”

“How long is the trip?” Sansa inquired.

“About seven to ten days, depending on what winds and weather I encounter along the way.”  Sandor felt a twinge of anxiousness as he answered.  What if she thought he was nuts for suggesting that she travel with him now that she realized how damn long she’d be trapped with him?

“And what if I get sea sick?” she wondered.

“Well, you might, but it won’t last long if you stay on deck and stay busy while we’re underway,” Sandor reassured her.  “I have some nausea meds in my medical bag if you need them.”  Watching Sansa thinking over his offer, he added quickly, “The more you worry about it, though, the worse it will be.”

“But what if you get sick of me halfway through the trip?”

“Highly unlikely, though I’d be hard-pressed to say the same on your end.”

“Don’t sell yourself so short,” Sansa chided him firmly.

That comment made Sandor laugh out loud.  “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever been accused of being short.”

“You’re incorrigible!” she said as she joined in his merriment.

The two fell into a comfortable silence as they looked fondly at one another.  While Sansa dreamed about how terrific it would be to have Sandor all to herself on the open seas, learning about sailing and maybe even getting the band together, Sandor was worrying about Sansa’s lack of sea legs and just how long it would be before she wound up wishing she’d never agreed to his diabolical stratagem to keep her around as long as possible.

Finally, Sansa decided to jump in with both feet.

“I’ll do it,” Sansa brazenly declared in a rush, the idea of spending however long it took to get to Lemonwood with Sandor on his boat making her feel a tad dizzy.  “I’ll go with you.”

Now Sandor was the one who wasn’t quite sure he had heard her correctly.  “Wait…you’re sure?  Just like that?” he gaped, stunned at how easily she had agreed.  “You’ll sail with me tomorrow?”

“Yeah, I will,” she beamed from ear to ear.

“OK, well…” he mumbled slowly, trying to process Sansa’s acceptance.  Bloody hell, he wanted to grab her and kiss her senseless.  “I guess that’s settled then."

“Though I will need to get to civilization and call a few people before I go anywhere,” Sansa reminded him, a fake level of sternness in her words.  “I mean, I can’t just disappear.  If I don’t check in with my employers soon, they might send out a search party for me.  And God help the both of us if I don’t tell Margaery what’s going on before I leave.”

“Who’s Margaery?” Sandor grinned, his heart happily fluttering like a hummingbird. 

“My best friend,” she replied with a smile.  “We’ve known each other forever.  She works at Golden Lion, too.”

“Ah,” he nodded.  “Another Kingslayer fan, I presume?”

“Yeah, I’d say so,” Sansa snorted mischievously, “Especially since she’s been seeing Bronn for almost two months now.”

“That cheeky bastard,” Sandor guffawed loudly, enjoying the irony that his longtime friend and bandmate had bagged himself a younger woman as well.  “Sounds like you and your little friend have a thing for older men.”

“Maybe…” Sansa hummed playfully in anticipation of his response.  “But only for certain heavily tattooed musicians.”

“Oh, really?” he purred, pulling her toward him roughly.  “Why didn’t you say so?”  Angling his head, Sandor leaned in quickly as he meshed his mouth with hers.  An immediate surge of want engulfed him upon hearing her throaty moan, causing his manhood to instantly awaken.

As Sandor explored her willing mouth with his, Sansa wasn’t sure she could see straight.  She was on fire and burning from the inside out.  Her hands leapt to his blue flannel shirt, hurriedly unbuttoning the fabric as he continued to kiss her hard and deep.  When she had finished her handiwork, Sansa broke away from him.  Both panted vigorously as she roughly shoved his shirt off his shoulders, licking her swollen lips as she stared at his skin.  The sight of his unclothed form was something she was quite certain that she would never tire of seeing.

Needing her naked _rightnow,_ Sandor yanked his undone shirt the rest of the way off and tossed it to the cabin floor.  He dove for the hem of his oversized yellow henley which she was wearing, desperate to peel it off her.  Sansa lifted her bottom and allowed him to pull it over her head.  Her bare nipples stiffened in the cool air, begging for his attention.  Pitching the shirt over his shoulder, Sandor stared at her reverently before nudging Sansa backward by her shoulders, not ungently, and crawled onto his bed, hovering over her as she rested her head on his pillow.

“So beautiful,” he rasped right before he lowered his head, taking one of her nipples into his mouth.  He sucked on it carefully, making sure he brought it to a full peak before popping off to give the other one the same treatment.

“Please…” Sansa begged while holding onto his shoulders, her woman’s place aching for him.  She writhed and wiggled as Sandor let go, kissing a trail from the valley of her breasts toward her belly.

“Please, what?” he rasped, desperate for her to tell him what she wanted.  Right now, he would do anything to please her.  “What do you need, love?”

“I need you to touch me,” she pled breathily, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she locked eyes with him.  “Please, Sandor…touch me.”

Staring into her azure eyes turned dark with lust, Sandor obeyed her as he skimmed his hand down her body, breeching her panties and swiping two fingers through her folds.

“Bloody hell, you’re soaked,” he growled as he began to swirl his fingers around her sensitive nub.

“It’s your fault,” Sansa sassed him with a moan, her blue eyes slamming shut as she squirmed and bucked into his hand, searching for more friction.

“Now who’s the greedy one, eh?” Sandor teased her, picking up the pace.  The vision of Sansa Stark lost in the throes of passion was almost more than a man could bear.

Grinding her cunny into the palm of his hand, Sansa couldn’t decide whether she wanted to smack the smug as shit look that was most likely stretching across his face right about now or to grab said face and assault him with sloppy, open-mouth kisses.  Maybe she could do both.  Before she could do anything, however, Sandor slid one of his long fingers inside her, pumping in and out while his other hand cupped one of her bare breasts, massaging it just this side of rough.  Not only did Sansa see stars as he found a delicious rhythm, she was quite positive that she heard fireworks too.

“Ungh, Sandor…” she called out, not caring how shamelessly needy she sounded as her peak began to bubble to the surface.  “Please, oh God, please…”

“Come for me,” Sandor commanded hoarsely, his throbbing erection becoming almost painful as it sat still stuffed inside his jeans.  “I want to see you come around my fingers.”

He didn’t need to tell her twice.  “Sandor!” Sansa called out, her back arching off his bed as the waves of her orgasm enveloped her.  Clutching the smooth fabric of his navy sheets in her hands, she involuntarily clamped her legs shut on his forearm, pinning his hand against her privates.  Once able to see straight again, Sansa barely cracked open her eyes, her lips quirking at the corners when her suspicions were confirmed.  Yup.  He looked smug alright.

“Proud of yourself, aren’t you?” she chortled in delight, still giddy as she came down from her high.  Her boneless legs flopped open, allowing Sandor to remove his finger from her highly sated womanhood.

“And why shouldn’t I be?” Sandor sniffed haughtily, ceasing all ministrations when he reared back, undoing his jeans.  “I have the most beautiful woman in the world lying naked in my bed.”  Without delay, he rose to his feet, shoving them down his legs right along with his boxers in one swift motion.

Sansa really wanted to say something witty at that retort, but she found it hard to come up with anything when Sandor stripped off his remaining clothes and dropped them onto the growing pile.  She wet her lips at the sight of his thick, long cock bobbing freely at her.  Moving fast, Sandor divested Sansa of her wet panties, dropping them to the floor at his feet. She grinned wickedly at him when he sucked his bottom lip under his teeth while he ogled her.

Quickly, Sandor dropped to his knees to dig out a condom from the drawer under his bed, relieved that he still had a few left in the ancient box.  He quickly rose to his feet and unwrapped it, not taking his eyes off hers as he rolled it along his length.

“C’mere,” she purred, opening her arms to welcome him.

Eager as a novice lad, Sandor clambered onto his bed and braced himself on one of his forearms, relishing the warmth of Sansa’s snug embrace as he lined himself up at her entrance.  Pushing inside her wet heat, he groaned in pleasure, rocking his hips as he lost himself in the sensation of his cock sliding in and out of the gorgeous young woman beneath him.

“Gods, Sansa…” he virtually whimpered as she wrapped her long, smooth legs around his waist, her nails languidly tracing circles along his back.  Neither one spoke as Sandor continued to thrust slowly at first, his stomach muscles tensing as she looked at him.  He had planned to go slowly, but the longer Sansa gazed at him with that soft expression in her pale eyes, the more difficulty he had in taking her gently.  Trying to hold back, Sandor asked, “Can you…I don’t know if…”

Sansa slid her hands along his back toward his head, snaking her fingers into his hair and pulling his head toward her mouth.  She didn’t care if she came again; she was the happiest she had ever been.  This time around, all she wanted was to hold Sandor in her arms and pretend like this was how it would be between them forever.  “Your turn to let go,” she whispered into his good ear, nibbling on his earlobe.  “Let me watch you.”

“Buggering hell, woman!” he exhaled sharply.  That did it.  Sandor was done for.  Unable to slow down any longer, he began thrusting in earnest, the sounds of the cabin’s bed creaking under the two of them as he pounded into her relentlessly.  It wasn’t long before his release found him.  “Fuck!” he groaned in a throaty rasp as he came hard and fast, dropping his head to rest on Sansa’s shoulder.

Not caring that his weight was virtually resting on top of her, Sansa held Sandor close, running her fingers through his shoulder-length hair.  Eventually, he managed to roll off her, tugging her along with him as he flopped onto his back.  Nestled against his chest with his arm around her, Sansa closed her eyes, listening to the sounds of the water lapping against the boat and of Sandor catching his breath.

“I should go clean up,” Sandor said as he lazily stroked Sansa’s arm with his free hand.

“Wait a minute, would you?” she asked quietly.  “I just want to lie here with you a little longer.”

“As you wish,” Sandor chuckled, twisting his head to place a light kiss on the top of her crazy mess of crimson hair.

And wish was exactly what Sansa did as she closed her eyes once again, burrowing her face into Sandor’s chest.  She wished that come tomorrow, Sandor Clegane would be hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “If you don’t have a dream, there is no way to make one come true.” – Steve Tyler


End file.
